


Till Time Shall Cease

by sahiya



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, If you only read one work by me, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-11
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:30:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-"Flooded" AU: An angry, exhausted watcher, a glowery, ensouled vampire, and a suicidally depressed slayer find themselves in the flat-share from hell in London. And, oh yes, did I mention that something's haunting Highgate Cemetery?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my day at [](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/profile)[**summer_of_giles**](http://community.livejournal.com/summer_of_giles/). A million thanks are owed to [](http://antennapedia.livejournal.com/profile)[**antennapedia**](http://antennapedia.livejournal.com/), [](http://fuzzyboo03.livejournal.com/profile)[**fuzzyboo03**](http://fuzzyboo03.livejournal.com/), and [](http://kivrin.livejournal.com/profile)[**kivrin**](http://kivrin.livejournal.com/) for hand-holding, brainstorming, picking the nits that had to be picked, helping me see the forest for the trees, and, in the case of Antenna, dragging my ass to Highgate in the first place back in January, without which this story wouldn't exist at all.

_Rest, rest, for evermore  
Upon a mossy shore;  
Rest, rest at the heart's core  
Till time shall cease:  
Sleep that no pain shall wake;  
Night that no morn shall break  
Till joy shall overtake  
Her perfect peace._  
                                - Christina Rossetti, "Dream Land"

Giles was dozing on the sofa, his paperback open face-down on his chest, when he heard the faint scrape of tires turning into the driveway. He opened his eyes and dragged himself into a sitting position, rubbing at his face. He prayed it was Buffy; she'd not come home that evening, nor called to tell them she was spending the night in LA or that ambiguous place she'd gone to meet Angel.

He could only hope she had sense enough not to spend the night with _him_. Or at the very least, not in any way that would endanger herself or others. Normally he'd have thought better of her, but just now - well, she wasn't herself, to put it mildly. He didn't know exactly what was wrong; post-traumatic stress seemed likely, not to mention entirely understandable considering where she'd spent the last two months. But there was something else. There was a reason that when he reached out to her, she pulled away.

She was lying to him about something.

Someone fumbled with the doorknob. Giles twitched back the curtains to see out, but the porch light wasn't working, along with everything else in the house. He stood as the door swung open, and then a familiar voice swore colorfully.

Giles stiffened instantly. "Angel," he said, stepping into view. "What are you - good lord." He broke off, staring at Buffy in Angel's arms, curled limply against his chest. Her eyes were closed, her face smoothed out. "What did you do to her?"

"Do?" Angel said, glowering in his turn. "I didn't do anything. She's sleeping, Giles. Now invite me in so I can put her to bed."

"Give her to me," Giles answered, stepping forward and holding out his arms.

Angel stepped back. "No. Invite me in."

"I hardly think -"

"Invite. Me. In."

Angel's tone made Giles raise his eyebrows, startled. It had been years since they'd been true allies, of course; on the few occasions they'd worked together out of necessity, it had been an uneasy, tenuous dance. Giles had been comforted, in a rather petty way, that no matter what happened, he had the moral high ground when it came to Angel. But now - underlying Angel's even tone was pure fury. It made Giles's heart pound in fight or flight instinct, but he controlled it. He braced himself on either side of the threshold and said, "Give me one reason I should."

"Because I have information you don't. If you love Buffy, you'll invite me in and listen to what I have to say."

Giles frowned. In Angel's arms, Buffy sighed, turning her face in towards his chest. Giles gritted his teeth. "Come in."

"Thank you." Angel stepped inside. Giles shut the door behind him and turned, watching as he carried Buffy up the stairs. He could just see the top of her blond head. Her hair was darker than it had been in years. Darker, somehow, than it had been when she'd died.

He followed Angel up the stairs, pulled back the covers on Buffy's bed, and glanced away while Angel tugged her jeans off, leaving her in her tank top and knickers. Then Giles tucked the covers back over her, up to her chin. He stroked his hand over her head and closed his eyes, feeling his throat close up at the sheer and utter relief of having her here.

The relief masked terror, of course. Terror that this was far too great a gift for him to be allowed to keep it. And not a little terror at what she might be hiding from him.

She moved under his hand. "Giles?" she mumbled.

"Hush. Angel brought you home. Go back to sleep."

"Mmm." She subsided, sinking into the covers. He turned and realized Angel was gone. He let out a silent, relieved breath, glad the vampire hadn't been witness to that moment.

Unfortunately, Angel was waiting for him in the entryway. His heavy brows were lowered; he glowered as Giles trudged down the stairs and nodded toward the front door. "When did my standing invitation get revoked?"

"I believe they did a general cleansing last year. Spike," Giles added with a vague gesture as he moved past him - carefully, he was always careful in Angel's presence. He glanced at the sofa and elected to stay standing.

"Ah. Yes. Spike." Angel grimaced.

For once Giles could only agree. He removed his glasses to polish them. "Much as I enjoy chatting with you, it's two in the morning and I invited you in for a reason. You have information that will help Buffy?"

"Yeah." To Giles's annoyance, Angel came into the living room and sat in one of the armchairs left somehow unscathed from the fight the night before. Giles now felt as though he were looming. He gritted his teeth and sat as well, in a corner of the sofa. Angel leaned forward, elbows on his knees."Did Buffy tell you where she was when she was dead?"

Giles frowned. "No. Willow said she was in a hell dimension. And the way she's been acting -"

"And how did Willow know that?" Angel asked, a very hard edge to his voice.

"I -" Giles shook his head. "Angel, I'm in no mood for games. Will you kindly come to the point?"

"The point is that I came back from hell." Angel stood abruptly - Giles controlled a flinch - and began pacing. "I came back, and I know how I felt and I know how I was, and Buffy -" He paused. "She wasn't in hell, Giles. I started asking questions and she finally told me the truth."

He paused. Giles tried to summon a glower of his own, but he was suddenly too afraid of where this was going. "Angel -"

"She was in heaven. And Willow - Willow tore her out of it." Angel ran a hand through his hair and resumed pacing. "She tore her out of it and Buffy woke up in her coffin, and now everyone wonders why she won't - why she isn't how she used to be, ready to deal with bills and slaying and - and _life_ again!"

Giles stared at him, stunned. Good Christ, was all he could think. He'd known she was lying about something. "There must be some mistake. She never told me - she never told any of us -"

"She told Spike," Angel said flatly, meeting Giles's eyes.

Giles sank back into the sofa. "My God. I - I didn't know." She hadn't told him.

Why hadn't she told him? Or had she tried to tell him, tried to make him see it yesterday? She'd been in such pain, he could hardly bear to look at her. Had she hoped he would somehow know? That he would somehow look at her and sense the truth?

If she had, he'd failed her. As he had in so many other ways. He shook his head. "I didn't know," he repeated.

"Obviously," Angel said, glaring. Giles opened his mouth to defend himself - though what he could possibly say when he'd been thinking the very same thing, he had no idea - but Angel held his hand up. Something in his eyes made Giles think twice before interrupting. "Heaven or hell, you know, coming back from it isn't that different. I needed peace, and rest, and quiet. Someone to take care of me until I could take care of myself. And time. A lot of time. Buffy gave me that. You . . ." He shook his head and gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "I could kill Willow with my bare hands right now, and I honestly don't think I'd waste much time brooding over it, but, Giles, I really expected better from you."

Giles flushed. "I -"

"Shut up. Let me guess. You have some bizarre idea about what's best for her, don't you?"

Giles felt his temper snap. He stood, folded his arms over his chest, and glared at Angel. "And if I do, I certainly wouldn't be the first, now, would I?"

To Giles's petty satisfaction, this seemed to give Angel pause. He shook his head and let both his arms drop to his sides. "This is not what she needs, Giles. To be here, in this house. Facing Willow every day over the breakfast table. She wants Buffy to thank her for bringing her back, did you know that? Everyone needs something from her. And you, the one person who should know better, you're having conversations within earshot of her about how you think she came back _damaged_."

Giles took an involuntary step backward. The backs of his knees hit the sofa. "I never meant -"

"I don't care what you meant. I care that I spent three hours tonight listening to her cry." Angel turned his back briefly. Giles saw his shoulders move, once, twice, and when he spoke he kept his face half-turned away. "I want to help her, Giles. And I know you do, too. You have to see that she can't be here right now."

Giles looked away, rubbing a hand over his face. She'd told _Spike_. Of all the people she could have told, she'd told Spike. For some reason that gave him the same horrible, gut-wrenching sense of inevitable tragedy that he'd had all last spring, like watching a trainwreck because he couldn't bear not to. He'd watched Buffy fall to her death once before. He'd be damned before he'd watch her do it again, in slow motion this time. He couldn't. It would kill him.

Angel was right - he had to get her out of here. This place was poisonous.

"I'll take her to England," he said at last. "There's a coven there. They might be able to do something for her."

"Great," Angel said. "I'm coming with you."

Giles stared. "When hell freezes over."

"You know what, Giles? If it weren't for me, you'd still be in the dark. I'm really sorry you got hurt when I lost my soul, but don't you think it's time you -"

"If you finish that sentence with _get over it_," Giles said, narrowing his eyes, "I will laugh in your face, and then I will stake you." He stepped away, toward the door. "You can't come with us because the coven would never allow you onto their grounds. Thank you for the information. I'm sure Buffy will call you when we get back." He opened it and stood aside, refusing to look the vampire in the eye.

Angel didn't move. "It'll take me a few days to take care of things in LA. Take her to the coven, and I'll meet you someplace else."

"No," Giles said flatly.

"Damn it, Giles -"

"She doesn't need you," Giles said, raising his head. "She has me."

Angel crossed his arms over his chest. "You've been to hell, then, have you? Or heaven? She was honest with you about where she'd been? You knew enough to ask?" He paused; Giles gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the doorknob until his knuckles turned white. "No? Then I think she does need me. And I _am_ asking you to get over that."

Goddamn him for being right. Giles looked away. "We'll meet someplace else then. Buffy can decide where."

"When?"

"I can't say yet. It'll take me a few days to make the travel arrangements, and I don't want to rush things at the coven."

"Fine. Tell Buffy I'll be in touch."

He left without a backward glance. Giles shut the door behind him and shot the bolt. He leaned against it, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. Then he replaced them and climbed the stairs, slowly.

Giles had left her bedside lamp on in case she woke. She was curled up on her side, facing the light. She hadn't been sleeping, she'd told him. She had nightmares. He'd assumed that they were of the place she'd been, but the truth was so much more complicated than that. This was the nightmare; being here, with them, must feel like hell to her. No wonder she hadn't told any of them the truth. They were all so unspeakably happy she was back, how could she possibly tell them she wasn't?

She should have, though. She should have told him. He hadn't been involved with the spell. Willow had made damn sure he knew nothing about it. But she hadn't told him. She'd told Spike, who, Giles guessed, was sitting on the information, using it to get closer to her. She'd told the person least able or willing to help her, the one most likely to follow her straight down into the abyss. He could see her teetering on it - had seen it yesterday, too, and not known why. Thank God Angel had dragged the truth out of her. At least he had her well-being at heart, and the good sense to tell Giles.

There had been a moment, he thought, in the Magic Box the day before, when she'd almost told him. And then she'd decided not to. And then he'd left. Left her alone to wrap her hands and beat up on the punching bag. Back to business as usual. He should have known. She should have told him. Was she afraid of what he'd do? To Willow, perhaps? If so, she should have been. He understood all too well what Angel had meant when he'd said he could cheerfully kill Willow with his bare hands. _Rank, arrogant amateur_ didn't even cover it.

He couldn't sleep at all after everything. He didn't even try. He read distractedly for the next four hours, but the paperback - something cheap he'd picked up in Heathrow when he realized he'd been in such a hurry he hadn't even packed a book - couldn't hold his interest. He was relieved to put it aside when he heard the others stirring upstairs.

He shuffled into the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, and located bread, eggs, and cinnamon for French toast. By the time Dawn and Tara found their way into the kitchen, the first batch was sizzling on the stove. He dredged up a smile at their enthusiasm. He was so tired he just felt numb, though not numb enough to avoid fretting. What to do about Dawn? Was she safe here with Tara looking after her? Were any of them safe so close to Willow? Buffy needed to be away from this place, but perhaps Giles needed to be here.

Which would leave Buffy alone with Angel. That was simply out of the question, if only for the sake of Giles's sanity.

Willow came down a few minutes later, made the same enthusiastic noises as everyone else, and polished off a stack of French toast, just as though she hadn't threatened him in this very kitchen not two days ago. He couldn't bring himself to return her smile, and after a few minutes her own faltered, turning first hurt, then angry. She left without thanking him for breakfast and slammed out the door without a good-bye.

There was terrible trouble brewing there. One thing at a time, he told himself as he saw Dawn off at the door. Buffy had to take priority. The others would manage in the meantime. Or so he must fervently hope.

By nine-thirty the house was empty save for himself and Buffy. He stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, listening, but there was no movement to indicate she might be up. He found a tray in a cupboard and fixed a plate for her with buttery French toast and fresh orange juice. He set a little pitcher of syrup to the side of the plate on the tray, along with a cup of coffee for himself. He wanted a prop, something to do with his hands during this conversation. And he was in desperate need of caffeine.

He knocked lightly. "Yeah," she said.

He nudged the door open with his knee. "Good morning."

She hadn't yet got out of bed, but she sat up, eyebrows rising. "Whoa. What'd I do to rate this?"

He settled the tray on her lap and himself on the edge of her bed, retrieving his coffee cup and saucer. "I thought you might like a treat."

"I don't object," she said, but she seemed reluctant to actually eat anything. She cut the French toast into tiny bits, drizzled syrup all over it, and proceeded to pick. Giles hid his worry behind his cup and tried to think of a way into the conversation they had to have.

"Angel said to tell you he'd be in touch," he said at last.

She raised her head. "You talked to Angel?"

"We spoke last night when he brought you home."

Buffy studied his face, then looked down at her breakfast. "He told you," she said to the tray.

"Yes."

"Dammit, I -" Buffy let her fork fall to the plate with a clatter and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. "I told him not to."

"I know. He did it because he cares about you. Truly cares about you," he added, managing not to grimace. "He knew I needed to know so I can help you."

"Help me how?" she asked, meeting his eyes. Her mouth was a hard line. "You can't help me. No one can. I got yanked out of heaven. It sucked. And you can't help me, Giles, because all I want to do -" She gulped, squeezing her eyes shut. "All I want to do is to go _back_. Are you going to help me do that?"

Giles shook his head, speechless. It occurred to him suddenly that the coven might. He felt his heart almost stutter to a halt at the idea. He'd not thought of it before, but they might well think of it as restoring the balance. _The way things should be_. Good Christ. He hoped she hadn't noticed that all the blood had just drained out of his face.

It seemed she hadn't. "Then you can't help me," she repeated, her voice very hard.

It took him a few seconds to collect himself enough to answer. "I can," he managed at last. "If you let me, I can help you. I don't . . ." He took a deep breath. "What I said last night to Willow - I know you overheard, and I'm deeply sorry. I was trying to impress upon her the gravity of what she'd done. She has no conception -" He broke off. He wouldn't burden her with that now. "I didn't mean it, though I do think we should take steps to make sure that you're entirely healthy."

She shrugged, pushing away the tray. "I feel fine." He raised her eyebrows at her. "Well, no," she amended, "actually I feel lousy, but I'm not sick."

"I didn't mean physically, though if you don't eat -" He stopped himself again, almost bit his tongue. "Angel told me that what he needed when he came back was rest, and peace, and quiet."

"He came back from hell."

"He seemed to think that coming back from heaven wasn't much different."

She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I'm never gonna get any of that on the hellmouth."

"No," he agreed, "which is why I think we should go to England." She looked up at last, clearly startled. He hesitated. Perhaps the coven was not the place for them after all. Perhaps he should keep Buffy well away from them and their well-meaning but ruthless devotion to the balance. He looked away, momentarily unable to meet her eyes, then forced himself to look back. What he saw there - the exhaustion, the indifference, the flat-out despair - made him want to weep, and he knew he could not deny her anything, even if it took her away from him again. "There's a coven in Westbury," he managed, through lips that felt numb. "I thought we'd go there first, spend a few days. It's lovely country, very quiet. They might be able to - to help you."

"What about the money, Giles? The bills and the - the -"

"I'll take care of it. For the time being." She blinked at him. He cleared his throat, vaguely embarrassed, and drew a deep breath. "And after Westbury . . . well, we can go anywhere you like, really. I think you might enjoy London." He paused, wondering if it would be best to avoid mentioning Angel for now. They could talk about the details later - and it might make her rush things at the coven. On the other hand - no. He couldn't ask her to trust him with one breath and lie to her in the next. "Angel said he would meet us wherever we ended up."

Her lips parted in surprise. "Really?" Giles nodded. "And you said that was okay?"

"Under some duress," he admitted. "Of course, if you'd rather he didn't, I'm sure - that is, he'll understand if you'd rather not have the, er, confusion."

She shrugged. "Not really confusing." She picked up her fork and poked at her French toast listlessly. "Well. Okay."

"Okay?"

She shrugged. "Anywhere that isn't here is okay by me." She leaned back, closing her eyes, and when she spoke her voice trembled. "I'm tired, Giles. Really tired, and it hurts, being here. Everything is so loud and - and all I want to do is sleep, but then I do sleep and I dream about being back in that box." She swallowed. "The only thing that doesn't hurt is lying in bed with my eyes closed. It's hard. It's too hard."

He shifted closer to her on the bed, reached out, and pulled her close. She laid her head in the crook of his neck. "Buffy, I - I can't be sorry that you're here. I missed you more than I can say. But I am so, so sorry you have to give more than you already have, and I'm sorry I didn't do the right thing yesterday."

She shook her head. "S'okay. You're in good company. No one else knows what to do either. Least of all me."

"Well, that's something we can figure out together." He pulled away to look at her. "I have some things I should do, if we're leaving in the next couple of days. But if you get dressed and come downstairs I'll make you whatever you'd like for breakfast. Well," he paused, glancing at his watch, "closer to lunch now."

She gave him a weak smile. "The French toast is fine. I'm just not hungry."

"You'll come downstairs, though? Please?"

She glanced at him and, after a moment, nodded. He decided that was the best he'd get for now and stood, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Then, embarrassed, he stepped away, gathering up the tray and the coffee cup. At the door he paused, looking back at her. She had her knees drawn up to her chest; her bed wasn't large but she looked lost in it all the same. "Buffy," he said softly, "please trust me."

She raised her eyes to meet his. She looked hollowed out. He sighed and shut the door quietly behind him.

***

It felt like a decade since he'd last come this way, Giles reflected as he turned off the motorway in Westbury, but it had really only been about week since he'd received Willow's call and gone pelting out, barely taking the time to pack a bag. Despite the fear that rode along in the pit of his stomach, flaring whenever he thought about the _what if_'s of this visit, he was glad to be back. The coven felt more like home than anywhere else in England since his mother had died, and it was the one place in the world where no one expected more of him than he was prepared to give. Everything here was soft and muted, from the rolling, verdant hills to the perpetually overcast sky and the silvery gleam of the Irish Sea.

This last came into view as they crested a rise. Buffy, silent since they'd left Heathrow, sat up. "Pretty."

"Yes," he said, not bothering to conceal his own pleasure. Southern California's landscape was harsh, dry, dead. It had its own beauty, he supposed, but it was nothing like this. "We're almost there - just about twenty minutes or so."

She sank back into her seat, looking more alert, watching out the window at the pastures rolling by. "So," she said after a few minutes, "you haven't said what they're gonna do to me."

The way she phrased it made him glance at her sideways. Her face was turned away, revealing nothing. "They're going to - to check you, for lack of a better term. Make sure that when Willow brought you back, she didn't - the, the magic she used was very dark, and -"

"My soul. You want to make sure I still have it, don't you."

He wished he could pull over to have this conversation properly, but out on these hedge-lined, back-country roads, there simply wasn't room. "No, Buffy, that isn't it. If you didn't have your soul - well, suffice to say that we would know. But I want to - to -" He sighed. "This has been so very difficult for you already. If there's something wrong that the coven can fix, I want to find out."

"Oh." She fell briefly silent. "Is it going to hurt?"

He shook his head. "I don't know what they're going to do, exactly, but I doubt it. It might even feel good."

"Hmm," she said, as though she were skeptical. He couldn't blame her, really, nor could he think of anything that would assuage her fears, and so they were both quiet as the last few miles to the coven rolled by in a series of increasingly narrow roads. At last they rounded a bend, crested a hill, and the coven's main building came into view.

It was an impressive old building made of the gray glacial rock common to the whole region: three stories, three dozen rooms, and an enormous kitchen and attic. Giles had often thought it looked as though it had always been there, not at all out of place amidst the hills and pastures. It wasn't visible from the road, but they kept an extensive garden and orchard in back, including four greenhouses, and beyond that they owned a dozen acres of land that they simply let do as it pleased. They kept horses - Giles had boarded his own horse here ever since he'd left for Sunnydale - and chickens and half a dozen slinky, sleepy cats.

Giles would have happily brought Buffy here to stay as long as she wished, but they would never allow a vampire - not even one with a soul - onto their grounds. Buffy hadn't said a word about Angel since Sunnydale, but once she started feeling better, he was certain she'd want to see him. Through his friend Robson Giles had arranged for a flat in London, big enough for the three of them, to be ready whenever she was. Giles was trying very hard not to think about any of that, trying not to imagine what it would be like sharing space with Angel. It had been years, after all, and he'd certainly been doing his best in LA to fight the good fight. Perhaps it was time for Giles to put it behind them. Let it go.

The fingers on his left hand twinged at the idea. He lifted his hand from the steering wheel to stretch them, hoping Buffy wouldn't notice. Not that she'd know what it meant if she did.

For now, he decided, he'd push all that out of his mind. Buffy was here with him, in this moment, in his favorite place in the world. It was the very opposite of the hellmouth in every way, positively brimming with energy, beautiful and bright. Like Buffy had been, once.

She perked up as he pulled into the gravel drive leading up to the house and parked the car. The doors swung open just as she'd grabbed both their bags out of the boot, and Jane Harkness swept out to meet them in a jangle of bracelets and a swish of soft skirts. She hugged Buffy first, forcing her to drop the bags, and then Giles. "I'm glad to see you back so soon," she said in his ear.

"Me, too," he said, and released her.

"And you, Buffy." Jane turned back to Buffy and took both of her hands in her own, squeezing them. "I'm Jane Harkness. I've heard so much about you from Rupert."

"Really?" Buffy said, glancing at him uncertainly.

"These were the, er, old friends," he explained as the three of them headed inside. "I was here when I got Willow's call."

"Oh," she said, in a more subdued tone.

Jane said they'd left his room more or less as it had been and prepared the one next to it for Buffy. She invited them for tea in her study after they'd settled in and left them to themselves. Giles led Buffy up the creaky old staircase, carpeted in faded green, to the second floor. "None of the doors lock," he said, showing her to her room. "No need. Come find me when you're ready?"

She nodded. He let himself into his own room, dropped his bag on the floor by the door, and sank onto the bed. He rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath, attempting to center himself. He longed for a nice, simple, meditation session with Jane, but for the moment he settled for looking out the window and letting his mind wipe itself blank. He couldn't see the ocean from here, obscured as it was by the hills, but he knew it was there, just beyond.

At last he rose and began unpacking. The room was small but not spartan, the furniture eclectic but comfortable. There were beautiful watercolors on the walls, and a door next to the wardrobe that opened into the bathroom he'd share with Buffy. He breathed deeply: home.

He was just putting away his socks when Buffy knocked lightly. She was quiet as they made their way through the house, down to the ground floor and into the west wing where Jane kept a room and her study. Giles judged it to be nerves about what the coven had in mind for her and decided it would be best to let her see for herself that they meant no harm.

He and Jane chatted easily as she poured tea for the three of them about the likelihood of a difficult winter damaging the fruit trees. Buffy said little, but Giles could see her working herself into a state over something. His worry increased steadily until at last he said, "Jane, perhaps we'd best come to the point."

She nodded subtly to him; she'd seen it as well, then. "Yes, I think you're right." She stood and came around to sit beside Buffy. Only because he was watching did Giles see Buffy control a flinch. "Buffy, Rupert's told me a little about what happened to you, but I'd like you to tell me more, if you can."

She shrugged. "Not much to tell. I was in heaven. Then I was six feet under."

"Mmm," Jane said. Giles saw the lines around her mouth deepen and knew he'd be having a serious conversation with her about Willow before long. "I was hoping you might be able to tell me a bit more about heaven. There are some dimensions that are quite lovely, but they're not heaven as we think of it."

Buffy shook her head. "I know from dimensions and it wasn't like that. I just . . ." She squeezed her eyes shut. Jane cast Giles a worried glance, which he returned with interest. "It was like being cupped in somebody's palm," she said at last. "I was safe and I knew everyone I loved was safe, too. I didn't have to worry anymore about anything. I was done." She opened her eyes but kept them downcast, trained on her hands. "My mom was there."

Jane let out a breath. "Well, then. That certainly sounds like the real thing."

Buffy shrugged. "Accept no substitutes," she murmured.

"Indeed," Jane said, smiling softly. "I'd like to speak to you alone for a little while, Buffy. Do you mind, Rupert? I promise I'll send her up to you when we're done here."

Giles thought he did mind, actually. He searched Jane's face anxiously until she laid a hand on his arm and squeezed. "Fine," he said, rising. "Buffy?"

"Sure," she said. "Oh, um." She glanced at her watch. "We should call Dawn, I guess, before she leaves for school. One of us should, anyway."

"I'll do it," Giles said, glad for something with which to distract himself. He'd not been brave enough over the phone to ask what Jane's professional views were, so to speak, about Buffy's resurrection. But he supposed that one way or another, nothing would be decided tonight, and Jane would never be cruel about it - certainly not to Buffy, but also not to him.

He was also glad beyond measure that Buffy had thought to call Dawn in the first place. Perhaps she wasn't as far gone as he worried she was. She had to want to be better, though; if there was one thing he'd learned over the years, it was that one had to want to be well again, even if it meant dealing with the mess being sick allowed one to avoid.

He called Dawn, assured her that all was well and that he was doing everything he could for Buffy, then tried to tease out information from her on the situation in Sunnydale. Everything was fine, she said, especially since the basement was no longer flooded. Giles wondered if he'd get the same status update if he asked Tara. Which, come to think of it, was something he should do. Not today, but soon.

He was attempting to read by the failing light when Buffy crept in. Crept was indeed the right word; she eased the door open without knocking and stole across like a cat looking for a place to hide. Except instead of darting under the bed she crawled across it, towards him. He sat up, startled, and she stopped, kneeling back. He searched her face, looking for clues about what Jane might have said to her, but there weren't any. She looked the same - tired, wan, too thin by half. And yet still his Buffy. More his Buffy, perhaps, than she had been since her return. "All right?" he whispered.

She nodded. Then she shook her head. Then she put her face in her hands. Giles stood and shut the door. It was dinnertime, but Jane would undoubtedly know to send a tray up. He turned on the bedside lamp and took Buffy by the shoulders, easing her down beside him until her head lay on his chest.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Good lord." He lifted his head to peer at her in the yellow light. "Whatever for?"

She shook her head. "You were done, too. And you were here, in this beautiful place. Jane said you were, were - she said you needed to be here. And then I came back and yanked you right back to the -" her voice trembled "- to the hellmouth -"

"God, Buffy," he said, pulling her closer. "Don't - don't apologize for that. Ever. I -" He shook his head. "I was so happy to have you back. You've no idea."

"Not so happy to go back to Sunnydale," she muttered.

"Well, no," he admitted, "but neither were you." She made a noise that might have been a laugh, might have been a sob. Either way, he pulled her closer. "What did you talk about with Jane?" he asked, carefully.

She shrugged. "Didn't talk much. She checked my aura. Did a cleansing."

"What did she say?"

"She said . . . she said I'm sad. Depressed. I said I knew that already."

"Did the cleansing help?"

Buffy rolled onto her back and closed her eyes. "I don't know. I think maybe. This afternoon, all my feelings just sort of ran together until I couldn't feel any of them. I knew I was upset, but I couldn't tell if it was anger or grief or - or what. It was all just _bad_. And once she did it, I knew what I felt. And it still felt bad, but it was like someone had - had washed a window and let me see inside myself again. That's how I knew I had to apologize to you."

"You didn't," he said, brushing his lips against her temple. "Truly, Buffy. It was none of it your doing to begin with." _Except the fall_, a voice in the back of his head whispered. Giles flinched from the thought, but it was true. Coming back hadn't been her choice; dying in the first place had been.

That sort of thinking wouldn't do her a damn bit of good. Giles quashed it firmly.

"Believe me, that I know." She opened her eyes. "I'm pissed at Will."

"Ah."

"Really, really pissed at her. Like, she's lucky she's on a different continent sort of pissed. She had no right to do this to me."

"No," Giles said heavily, "she didn't."

"She thought she was doing the right thing. I'm still so mad, though."

Giles said nothing. He had to hope that Willow had thought she was doing the right thing. If not - if she'd done it for any other reason - then the problems he thought were six months or a year away were in fact much more immediate.

Whatever the case, those problems seemed very remote just then. Buffy snuggled closer and Giles wrapped his arms around her. He felt a difference in the air around her from when he had held her before, in her room in Sunnydale. Whatever Jane had done had worked. She was better already. Unfortunately, Giles suspected the easy part was over.

Dinner was such quintessential comfort food that Giles thought it must have been deliberate: tomato soup and crusty bread, both obviously homemade, most likely from ingredients grown on the grounds. They ate at the desk in his room. Buffy didn't finish her bread, but she ate without complaint and didn't leave any soup in the bottom of her bowl. Once she'd finished, she went and knelt on the bed, staring out the window. Giles left off eating and went to sit beside her. She leaned into him and asked, "How long can we stay?"

"As long as you like."

She knelt back. "And Angel? Could he come here?"

Giles shook his head. "No. Because of what he is."

"Oh."

"I've arranged for a flat in London, when you're ready. Or we could go elsewhere - the council has a few holdings -"

She shuddered. "I don't want anything to do with them yet. I think London'll be okay. But not - not right now. In a couple of days, maybe. A week."

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled at her. "Just tell me when."

She went to bed early. He sat with her while she fell asleep, his hand stroking lightly over her hair. Her head just barely touched his hip where he sat beside her. He wanted to convey to her through the brush of his fingertips that there was good in this world, too, and pleasure, and joy. She'd told Dawn that the hardest thing in the world was to live in it - and then she had chosen to jump. He didn't know what Jane had said to her earlier or what Buffy was thinking, and he hadn't the courage to ask.

Once Buffy was asleep he rose and slipped out of the room. He went down to the kitchen, which was thankfully empty, and made a pot of rose hip tea. He placed it on a tray with two cups, a dish of raw sugar, and a handful of ginger-nut biscuits. Then he carried it down the hall and knocked at Jane's door.

"Come in!" she called. He did so. "Ah, Rupert, I was hoping it was you. And you come bearing tea."

"And biccies," he said with a smile. She cleared her desk and he laid out the tea things. She poured for them both and handed him his cup.

"How's Buffy?" she asked before taking her first sip.

"Resting. She's better. Thank you."

Jane nodded. "Her aura was clean. And normal, for someone suffering from fairly crippling depression. There might still be some unforeseen ramifications - in fact I'm sure there will be - but I think she's healthy."

Giles hid his relief and anxiety behind his tea cup. Then he realized his hand was shaking and put the cup back on its saucer, pushing them both back from the edge of the desk. "Then, then -" he began, and had to stop. She watched him carefully, without speaking. "Jane," he said at last, "it occurred to me that - that Buffy being back is, well, it upsets the balance in some way, doesn't it? She shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be . . . alive. But she is, and, and -" He passed a hand over his face. To hell with it. "God, Jane, are you going to take her away from me again?"

He hadn't intended such raw honesty, but Jane seemed not the least bit surprised. She tilted her head and looked at him with quiet, unrelenting compassion. "No," she said softly, and he let out a breath. "If her aura hadn't been clean, if I thought she was unwell mystically, a threat in some way - then yes, I would have broached that with her. But that isn't an issue. And except in extraordinary circumstances, we don't take life."

He allowed himself to slump in his seat. "I know. But these are extraordinary circumstances, and I thought - I was afraid -"

She reached for his hand. "I know." She squeezed it and withdrew, picking at a biscuit. "If I had given her the option," she said at last, "do you think she would have taken it?"

He stared down at his hands, clasped together in his lap. "I don't know. She did last time. In May, I mean. It was suicide, there isn't any other word for it. There were . . . other solutions. Not good ones, perhaps, but she - she didn't want to hear any of them. She'd given up days before, I think. She wanted her death."

"What you have to do, then, is make her not want it."

He laughed shortly. "Easier said than done, when she knows what heaven is. It's pure selfishness, I know, but . . . I want her here, with me, for years to come."

She sighed. "It is selfish, but it's also human. And I think it can be done. Deep down, she wants to live."

"You saw that in her aura?"

"Mmm." She turned her teacup in her hands. "Not quite in her aura. She's a fighter. Eventually she'll get sick of trying to lie down and die."

"I can only hope so." And hope, too, that he had the strength to keep pulling her up until she did. At least here at the coven he would have help in that. He supposed that once they left he would have Angel, but somehow that was less of a comfort.

Jane was watching him, he realized when he finally raised his head from his contemplation of his cooling tea. "I actually wanted to speak to you about something else," she said.

He straightened. "Willow?"

"No. Well, yes, eventually, but that can wait." She paused, biting her lower lip. Her brow furrowed. "How are you, Rupert? You're so busy trying to take care of Buffy, when not two weeks ago you were . . ." She paused delicately. "Not particularly well yourself."

"I was grieving. I'm not anymore."

"It was more than that, surely."

He rubbed a hand over his face. "All right, yes. It was. But I can't think about it now."

"Can you afford not to?"

Jane always did have the ability to cut straight to the heart of the matter. The truth was that she was probably right. Buffy's window analogy had been apt; he'd only just been able to see inside himself again when Willow had called, and then the flood of relief had wiped out everything else. But it was more complicated than that - so complicated that he couldn't even begin to explain it.

He sighed. "I think we both just need some time to get ourselves sorted."

She nodded, apparently satisfied for the moment. "Time, we can give you. And a bit more besides - I've asked Buffy to come see me tomorrow at ten. I want to lead her in some meditation. Will you join us?"

He smiled. "Gladly, thank you."


	2. Chapter 2

The meditation helped, as Giles had known it would. He hadn't been certain how Buffy would take to it, and indeed, he felt her fidget away the first ten minutes seated cross-legged beside him on the mat. Only when she at last relaxed and went still did he allow himself to sink deeper into the sound of Jane's voice, reaching that place deep inside himself, the still, inner core where his magic lived. It was a shipwreck of emotion: lingering, disrupted grief, joy, fear - and a strange amount of inexplicable anger. At Willow? He knew he should try to sort through it; even for someone with his relatively low level of power, it was dangerous to leave it a mess like that. He couldn't, though. Couldn't bring himself to touch it, not yet.

Nearly a week went by this way, before Giles quite realized it. Buffy slept late once the jet lag passed, giving Giles the rare opportunity to exercise his horse each morning, something he had missed terribly in Sunnydale, before showering and meeting her for breakfast. It was a few days before she felt ready to join the others at mealtimes, and he couldn't say he blamed her; the coven members were wonderful, but their collective good will could be overwhelming, if one was not in the mood for it. He certainly hadn't been when he'd been here before.

He didn't mind having her to himself, either. They'd not had time together like this in years. He'd never appreciated the library and the privacy it had afforded them until it was gone. The Magic Box had given them that back to some degree, but people were always in and out, interrupting. They began doing katas together again, on the beach or out on the grounds, beneath an old oak tree Giles had used as a meditation spot in the past. The color came back to her cheeks, her eyes brightened, and he found himself wishing they might never leave this place, ever.

On the fourth day they finished their katas, and for once it didn't look like it was going to immediately start pouring. They collapsed on the grass beneath the oak tree's wide, reaching branches. Their breathing was still synchronized, Giles noticed, and found himself reaching out to her. She rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. "So different here," she murmured.

"In England?"

She made a noise. "No. The coven. You and me - we're different here. And you're way less stuffy tweedy book guy. I like it."

"Me too," he said, and shifted onto his side so he could see her better. "Do you mind if I ask how you're feeling? You seem better."

"I am," she said, turning her face into the sun. "It only hurts sometimes, and there's so much . . . I don't know. Peace, I guess? There's so much peace here. Is it always like this off the hellmouth? Did I just forget after five years?"

He shook his head. "This place is extraordinary. Rather like you."

She smiled up at him. "I guess being a miracle might have some benefits after all."

A few minutes later the expected rain clouds came scuttling towards them, and he accepted her hand up so they could dash down the hill to the house. They didn't quite make it and ended up squelching into the front hall, with Buffy making disgruntled noises and wringing her hair out over the tile. They were halfway up the stairs when Jane appeared, waving to them.

"Phone call for you, Rupert," she said. "A man named Robson?"

"Ah, yes. Is he on the line now?"

"No, he called while you were out."

"Ah. Think I'll, er, change first, then."

He trudged up after Buffy, who hadn't waited. She'd closed herself in her room by the time he arrived in their hallway, and he could hear the shower running in their shared bath. Undoubtedly she'd use up every ounce of hot water. This thought, with its mixture of affection and exasperation, was so typical - or had been, once upon a much simpler time - that it made him smile. They were both getting better. Thank God.

He swapped his rain-soaked jeans and jumper for dry ones, ran his fingers through his hair, and went to use the phone in Jane's study. He hoped there wasn't a problem with the flat.

"No, no problem," Robson said, once they'd exchanged pleasantries. "Everything's ready. Do you know yet when you might be coming down?

"No, not really. I'm hoping for another week here, at least. It's doing both of us a world of good."

"I see," Robson said, then paused strangely.

"Are you certain there isn't a problem?"

"Yes, of course," Robson said, in a tone that made Giles think he was lying. Giles stayed silent, waiting with his eyebrows raised. "There's been, well, a spot of grave-robbing."

Giles had been standing beside Jane's desk. Now he sat in the chair. "Where?"

"Highgate. The west side."

The old section, then, dating back to the Victorian era. Giles had walked through it on occasion, the last time years ago now, not long before he left for Sunnydale. He remembered it as a blur of ivy and elaborate gravestones adorned with angels whose eyes had seemed to track him. Beautiful, quiet, and very, very unsettling. "Hmm. What are they after?"

"Bones, it seems. There's only the one - so far - and there may be a few trinkets missing as well, but the body and shroud have been disturbed. I was alerted by my nephew, who works as a tour guide there. He's a bit of a family black sheep and has a bizarre fascination with London cemeteries, but he knows enough to recognize when vandalism is neither random nor caused by human maliciousness. The council, in their infinite wisdom, has stuck me with the mess, and I was hoping that you and Buffy might help investigate."

"Ah." Giles paused, considering. It sounded . . . well, it sounded fascinating, really. A mystery at Highgate, stolen bones - any number of things could be afoot. And yet he had to say no; Buffy wasn't ready for London. _He_ wasn't ready for London, if it came to that. "Perhaps - perhaps if it's still unsolved in a week or so -"

"I have to hope it won't be," Robson said, "if only because eventually the press will get wind of it - do you remember that whole debacle in the '70s with that so-called vampire? Good lord, what shite."

Giles did remember, albeit dimly. He'd only just returned to the watcher fold at the time, and he'd had more important things to worry about than vampire hoaxes in an overgrown, ruined cemetery. "Are you sure this isn't just more of the same?"

"Very sure. The security around the cemetery is much better than it used to be - no more adrenaline junkies sneaking in at night to perform God only knows what rituals."

"Right. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint. Er," Giles hesitated, "do let me know if there are any developments, all right?"

"Of course. And you let me know when you want to come down - I'll meet you at the flat."

He rang off. Giles sat for a minute with his hand on the receiver, wondering if he should at least have mentioned a few resources that might help Robson, then decided he was being ridiculous. Robson was a top-notch researcher. He'd know what he was doing. It was, most definitively, not Giles's problem.

"Everything okay?" Buffy asked when Giles knocked on her door.

"Yes, just a bit of council business. Nothing for you to worry about."

"Good. Hey, you think there might be leftovers in the kitchen? I'm starving."

Giles nodded, trying not to let on that his throat had just closed up for no reason at all. "Yes," he managed. "I'm sure there are." He rested a hand on her shoulder as she moved past him and allowed himself to think for the first time that perhaps they were out of the woods - or at least near enough to see the light of day.

Which was why he should not have been at all surprised when, the next morning, Angel called.

Giles was out at the time, working in one of the greenhouses with Jane. He was covered in potting soil when he returned to the house, but pleased with himself. He was surprised to find Buffy sitting on his bed; she often came in and out - they'd been much less cautious of each other's personal space here than ever before - but never, to his knowledge, unless he was there. "Hey," she said. "Have fun with the green growing things?"

"I did, yes," he said, eyeing her curiously. "Everything all right?"

"Think so. Um." She looked away, avoiding his gaze, and he paused in the act of exchanging his soiled jumper for a clean one to look at her in concern. "Angel called. He - he seemed to think you might not've told me about him wanting to join us. I said you had, I just hadn't been ready to leave yet."

Giles held very still. "And now?"

She looked down at her hands. "Dunno. You know how I said before, in Sunnydale, that it wasn't confusing with Angel?" He nodded. "Well. It wasn't then. I didn't . . ." She looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly and shaking her head. "I didn't feel anything, Giles. Except _bad_. When I saw him I just felt bad and it blurred into all the other badness and I couldn't figure out what any of it was. So it wasn't really confusing - seeing him made me feel just as bad as anything else. But now, I'm not - not - I mean, I don't feel good a lot of the time still, but I feel better and it might be . . . yeah. Confusing."

"I see," he said quietly.

"And, and London. It's a big city. A _big_ city, and I'm just not sure I'm ready for the noise and the people and the - and the everything." She fell silent. He glanced over at her and saw that she was biting her lip. "It's nice here," she added, almost in a whisper.

Giles mentally cursed Angel. He supposed he couldn't entirely blame him for not trusting him, but dammit. He could see where this was going. He sank down beside her on the bed. "You shouldn't let him influence your decision. The point of this trip was for you to heal yourself. It has nothing to do with him. Or me, for that matter."

"It does though," she said, leaning into him, bumping his shoulder with her own. "The quality Giles time has had a lot to do with it."

He smiled and pressed his cheek to the top of her head. "I'm glad."

"What about you? He said you two argued."

Giles gritted his teeth and wondered if Angel was trying to deliberately undercut him with Buffy. "We did, a bit. And I won't lie to you, I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of sharing a flat with him. But . . ." Giles took a deep breath. "He does love you, in whatever way you wish to think, and if you believe -" He broke off. "I want what you want," he finished at last. "Provided that doesn't, er, endanger anyone else."

She nodded. "I hear you there." She looked down at her hands. "I wish he could come here. That'd make things easier."

Giles was just as glad he couldn't. This place was his sanctuary; the last thing he needed was the creature who'd murdered Jenny and tortured him encroaching on it, even for the best of reasons. "The coven has its laws," was all he said.

She nodded. "Well, then. London it is."

His heart sank. He'd wanted this to last just a little bit longer - just the two of them, in this lovely, peaceful place, with nothing more to worry about than where to walk that afternoon. He and Angel had agreed not to rush her; they had agreed that she should have as much time at the coven as she wished. And now he had called and it was over, just like that. Giles felt as though he'd been robbed. Ludicrous.

"Giles?" she said, frowning at him.

"All right," he said, dredging up a smile for her. "London it is."

***

As promised, Robson was standing on the stoop of their building when Giles parked the Citroën - a much newer model than the one he'd owned in Sunnydale - out front. Giles was half-relieved, half-annoyed to see him; Buffy had grown first pensive, then monosyllabic, and finally silent over the course of the drive into London and he wanted to get her upstairs and into the quiet flat as quickly as possible. But there were matters he and Robson needed to discuss and they might as well do that now, he supposed.

Buffy was not thrilled to hear that Robson was council. Giles felt her withdraw minutely when he introduced them, and once Robson had shown them around the flat she disappeared into her room and shut the door. Giles stood looking at it, then removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, she's usually much more - er -"

"Say no more," Robson said, appearing unconcerned, or at least unoffended. "After what she's been through, it's perfectly natural."

"Yes," Giles said, not willing to correct Robson's assumptions. That would open up a host of problems he wasn't prepared to deal with. "The special arrangements, by the way -"

"For the vampire, yes." Robson led him over to the third bedroom. "Shades to block out sunlight," he said, gesturing, "and there's enough O-neg in the refrigerator to last you through the weekend." He turned to Giles. "Rupert, are you sure this is a good idea? Two days ago you said neither of you was ready, and now, here you are."

Giles sighed to himself. Robson had been Giles's only liason to the council in times of great difficulty; he knew, perhaps more than anyone save Willow and Xander, how badly Giles had suffered at Angelus's hands. "It's what she wants," he said quietly. "We'll be fine. You haven't told anyone, have you?"

Robson shook his head. "If Quentin knew the Scourge of Europe was in town, you can bet they'd have a wetworks team in here. You'd never even have time to spit out the story about his soul." He hesitated. "Speaking of which -"

"It's not a problem."

"It wasn't last time either, until suddenly it was."

"The event that triggered it will not be repeated." Giles had to hope. Pray. Get down on his knees and beg, if necessary.

"If you're sure," Robson said. Giles nodded. "Right, then. Holy water in the cupboard, stakes in the umbrella stand, as usual."

"I have my own, but thank you. Not just for the stakes, I mean, but for - for -" Giles gestured expansively as he walked Robson to the door. "For arranging all of this."

"It wasn't any trouble," Robson said, smiling, "but if you feel the need to pay me back, you could lend a hand with that matter out at Highgate."

"Still not solved?" Giles said, raising his eyebrows.

"No. There haven't been any more graves disturbed, but there have been a number of other strange incidences - well, I have some theories, which I'd be more than happy to share when you have time." Robson raised an eyebrow at him. "It might make a good project for Buffy. Help her get her mind off things."

Giles snorted. "Wandering around a Victorian cemetery might make a good project for my severely depressed, recently resurrected slayer? I think not."

"The irony does rather jump up and smack one in the face, doesn't it?"

"That's not irony," Giles said, opening the door and leaning against it. "That's . . ." He waved a hand vaguely. "I don't know what." Robson stood in the threshold, eyebrows raised and smiling faintly. Damn the man; he knew Giles far too well. Giles sighed. "Perhaps. Let me see how she settles in, all right?"

Robson smiled, tipped his hat to Giles, and left. Giles stood in the entry way for a moment, then retrieved a stake from the umbrella stand and took it into his bedroom, where he stashed it under his pillow. If Angel lost his soul again, there would be no dithering about, waiting for Buffy to kill him.

By the time Buffy emerged from her room, he'd hidden stakes in the lounge (under the sofa cushions), the bathroom (behind the sink), and the kitchen (in with the sharp knives), and was throwing together an elaborate salad from the contents of the refrigerator. Angel hadn't said when he would arrive, but Giles guessed it wouldn't be until well after full dark. They had a little time yet.

He paused in chopping tomatoes when she padded up beside him in bare feet to wrap an arm around her shoulders. "All right?"

She leaned against him. "I'll be okay."

Giles laid the knife down altogether. "That . . . would seem to indicate that you aren't okay right now."

She turned her face into his side. "Too loud, too bright, too many people." She gulped quietly, and when she spoke her voice shook every so slightly. "I thought I was better, Giles, but it was easy to be better at the coven."

"Say the word and we'll -"

"No." She shook her head and stepped away. He could see her gathering herself. "It'll be fine. I just have to get used to it." But she picked at her dinner, her recently renewed appetite entirely vanished, and afterward disappeared into her bedroom again. He stayed in the lounge, flipping back and forth between a ridiculous reality show on the BBC and a ludicrous documentary on Channel 4, fretting about Buffy and on edge from listening for Angel.

He looked in on her once. She lay curled beneath her blankets, not sleeping - she opened her eyes and looked at him. But she didn't invite him to join her and he didn't dare do so of his own initiative. The rules between them were different here, away from the coven.

He closed her door and poured himself a whiskey and soda.

He fell asleep on the sofa after his second. This was just as well, except that it meant he was startled awake at one in the morning by Angel knocking at the door and calling, "Giles. _Giles_," through it, fit to wake the whole building. Giles went straight for the stake he'd stashed between the cushions and sat for a few seconds, holding it. Then he stood and stuffed it in his back pocket.

He opened the door. "Angel."

He was as he ever was - tall, broad-shouldered, glowering. "Thought you'd never answer."

"I was asleep on the sofa." Giles looked at him across the threshold. "Did you have a nice flight?"

"Oh yeah, next time you have to cross the Atlantic I highly recommend going baggage hold. Much cheaper and no crying babies. Though there was this yappy little dog that wouldn't shut up."

"Did you eat it?"

"Tempting, but no. Are you going to invite me in or not?"

Giles crossed his arms over his chest. "You violated our agreement."

Angel leaned against the doorjamb. "Yeah, well, I thought you'd violated it first."

"I hadn't."

"I know. But I hardly think you can blame me for thinking you might have after our last conversation."

Giles shook his head and forcibly unclenched his jaw. "She wasn't ready. She needed another week at least."

Angel straightened defensively. "I didn't force her into anything."

"As good as," Giles hissed. He turned away. "Oh bloody hell, just come in."

He heard Angel step inside and close the door. "Look, Rupert -"

"Giles," Giles snapped, turning. "Giles. You don't call me Rupert. Ever."

To Angel's credit, he looked ashamed. "Sorry. Giles. Um. Have you been drinking?"

Giles laughed. "Not nearly as much as most people would under the circumstances." He turned away before Angel could reply, gesturing as he gave him the most perfunctory tour of the flat possible. "That's Buffy's room. That's mine. That's yours. It has shades to keep out sunlight. You sleep there. Are we clear?"

"Giles, nothing is going to -"

"You sleep there," Giles repeated, inserting what he damn well hoped was an edge of steel into his tone, "because if something does happen and you lose your soul, there won't be another homicidal rampage. There will be my stake through your heart."

Angel was silent. "Giles," he said at last, holding his hands up as though to show they were empty, "are you . . . all right?"

Giles shook his head. "You don't get to ask me that." He went into his room and shut the door, leaning against it until he heard Angel knock lightly at Buffy's. He took his glasses off and staggered over to the bed, where he collapsed and put his face in his hands. His head was suddenly splitting. The walls were thin. He could hear them on the other side, speaking indistinctly.

For almost two weeks now he'd been telling himself that it'd be fine, that he could do this for Buffy's sake. There was very little he wouldn't do for her, if only it would make her well again, and he shouldn't begrudge her this comfort. Angel loved her. He could be there for her in ways that Giles couldn't.

He just hadn't expected it to be so damn hard.

The two of them talked until nearly sun-up. Giles lay awake, fully dressed, listening to the muffled murmur of their voices. Only when he heard Angel leave did he allow himself to kick off his socks, struggle out of his shirt and trousers, and pull the covers over himself. He fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion, his hand tucked beneath his pillow to touch the stake.

He was woken at mid-morning when the phone rang in the kitchen. Less than half awake, he stumbled out to answer it and barely managed not to kill himself falling over a sofa that wasn't where he'd expected it to be. It turned out to be Jane, wanting to talk about her own concerns that they'd left too soon - sooner than she'd have recommended for either of them, she added pointedly. Giles struggled to get his brain in working order and then spent a good five minutes insisting they were fine, even as he wondered if Buffy would listen to Jane when she wouldn't listen to him.

"Very well," she sighed at last, to his relief. "But, Rupert, do you think perhaps that even if Buffy doesn't wish to come back, you might -"

"No," he said heavily. "I can't possibly leave her. Leave them. Together. Alone. I just can't, not in all good conscience - and I wouldn't anyway. I'm really all right, Jane, I promise."

She was quiet for a moment. "What kept you up last night, Rupert?"

He had no answer that wouldn't confirm what she already knew. He begged off instead, claiming he heard Buffy stirring, and she let him escape. He rang off and shuffled back to his bedroom, wondering if he might go back to sleep now, knowing it was impossible. He was exhausted but awake, and awake he would stay.

He showered, dressed in a pullover and jeans, and shaved over the sink. He looked haggard, he thought, staring at himself in mirror. Pale. Old. He hadn't looked like this yesterday.

Buffy had stayed up at least as late as he had, so he hadn't expected to find her in the kitchen, staring listlessly into a cupboard containing boxes of cereal lined up in colorful row: cornflakes, Wheetabix - which Giles couldn't get near anymore, thanks to Spike - Special K with the ambiguously labeled "red fruit." She was clad in sushi pajamas and bare feet. He paused in the threshold, watching her, but she didn't move until he cleared his throat. "What's that you always say when you can't choose? Eeny meeny - er -"

"Miney moe," she finished with a shrug. "I don't care. You choose."

"I could make you eggs, if you want. An omelet. Or pancakes. Robson stocked the cupboards quite well."

"Cereal's fine."

Under other circumstances, he'd have made the eggs anyway and insisted she eat them. Today, he was much too tired. He settled for cutting a banana up over both their bowls. She poured orange juice in tall, clear glasses, then sat at the kitchen table with her chin in her hands, staring into the middle distance. He placed her bowl in front of her, seated himself across the table, and the two of them commenced crunching cornflakes in silence.

"What would you like to do today?" he asked when it finally became too much for him. "The weather looks decent so we could do the Tower, or possibly a boat down the -"

She was already shaking her head. "I can't, Giles, I really can't." She pushed her cereal away. "Too much."

"What about a museum? A small one, someplace quiet -"

"I said _no_, Giles," she snapped. "I'm not ready for it."

Stung, he didn't answer. He stood to put their dishes in the sink and ran water over them before soaping up a sponge. He could feel her looking at him. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I just - give me today, please. All I want is to go back to bed."

He turned just in time to see her eyes dart to Angel's door. He felt his jaw clench. "Buffy, please, don't - don't let yourself slide backwards like this. You were doing so well." She looked away. He could have wept. He could have screamed. He could have cheerfully shoved a stake through Angel's sternum. "Fine," he said at last. "But tomorrow, let's do something. Something quiet. A gallery or a museum, even just the cinema."

She nodded. "Yeah, tomorrow. Or," she added, in the tone of someone making a peace offering, "we could patrol tonight. Cemeteries are always quiet."

He wasn't sure if slaying was the best idea right now, but with both him and Angel there it couldn't go too badly amiss. And it would get her out of the flat. He nodded. "Good."

She fidgeted, watching him. "You don't have to stay in today, too, you know. I'm just gonna sleep."

"You're going to sleep with Angel, you mean," he said flatly. He couldn't afford to be circumspect on this, as much as he would have liked to never think about it at all.

She shrugged. "Probably. I like sleeping with Angel," she added at his look. "And that's all it is - sleeping. Nothing's going to happen, Giles, I swear. God, the last thing I want right now is to - to -" She broke off, shaking her head. "Believe me, you're safe."

He raised his head from his contemplation of the counter's chipped tile. "It's not just my safety, Buffy. It's yours, it's his, it's the safety of every person in this city Angelus could kill. For God's sake, this is not paranoia!"

She stood and regarded him across the table, arms hanging down at her sides, her face nearly devoid of expression. "Go out for the day, Giles. You'll feel better if you do."

He didn't know what to say. He watched, speechless, as she crossed to Angel's room, opened the door just enough to squeeze inside, and shut it behind her.

_Dismissed_ was the word that came to mind. He leaned against the counter. His throat was aching. This felt like losing her all over again. He could feel her slipping away when only yesterday he'd felt closer to her than he had in years - ever, perhaps. But hadn't it always been like this? She came to him when there was no boyfriend for her to call, let him hold her when there was no young man - no vampire - there to do it. She'd told _Spike_ the truth, not him, not even when he'd been sitting right beside her, reaching out. She hadn't shoved him away at the coven, just the opposite in fact; she'd let him in more than she ever had. And now - now -

He flung the tea towel on the counter. She was right. He couldn't stay here today.

He went to the council, because it was the only place he could think to go. He spent the remainder of the morning sparring with potentials in their training facility, which had the double benefit of allowing him to let off some steam and keeping him well out of Quentin Travers's path.

By one o'clock he was sweaty and exhausted. He rinsed off in the showers and then sat down on a bench in the empty men's changing room. He couldn't stand the thought of going home just then; there was always the council library, but there he risked running into not only Quentin but also Robson, whose sympathy would only annoy him. He'd suggested the cinema to Buffy, but what he really wanted was a museum - a real museum, one he could get lost in and not emerge from for days if he wasn't careful.

The British Museum was the obvious choice, but he discarded it immediately. On any given day there were bound to be watchers about, studying the more mystical artifacts or looking at documents in the Reading Room. He hadn't been to the Imperial War Museum in years.

It wasn't as crowded as it would have been in the height of the summer tourist season, but there were plenty of school outings about to make up for it. Giles kept tripping over little pockets of blazer-clad children. He quashed his annoyance with a cup of tea in the museum café while he waited for them to clear out. They mostly had done by half four, leaving him time enough for a quiet wander before closing. He took his time, not bothering to read much for once, letting his eyes slide over the items in the glass display cases: personal items, mostly, donated to the museum for posterity, medals, clothing, service revolvers.

It was . . . well, Giles thought "damn depressing" summed it up well. He wasn't sure why, though, not until he found himself facing a wall with the start and end dates for World War II: 1939-1945. Six years. Even the bloody Cold War had ended eventually, when people had sometimes thought it never would. Eventually, all wars ended.

All except the one he was fighting. The one Buffy was fighting. That one never ended. No way to opt out either, and he had tried. So had she, come to think of it. Only here she was, forced to fight on. And here he was, forced to make her. No, not forced, not really - he wanted her to fight on, because it was the only way he could have her with him.

Giles sighed, declared the exercise a failure, and went out through the foyer to collect his coat. He paused briefly, looking up at the belly of the Spitfire suspended overhead. He'd imagined flying one of those once. He'd had stacks and stacks of books about Spitfires and Lancasters and anything else Britain had put in the sky during the Second World War. When his father had told him he was to be a watcher, Giles had binned them all in a fit of pique. He'd regretted it later, of course, but it was too late by then. Not even the sword his father had given him on his twelfth birthday a few months afterward had quite made up for it.

Next time he'd find an art gallery, he decided morosely.

The hot, airless press of people in the Tube on the way home did nothing for his temper. By the time he climbed the stairs to the flat, he was in a foul mood indeed. He hoped they did go patrolling after all. He wanted to stake something.

The smell of frying onions and garlic hit his nose the moment he let himself in the door. Since Buffy's culinary abilities stopped at picking up the phone to order a pizza, it had to be - it couldn't possibly be Angel.

It was though. The blinds in the living room were down and he stood at the stove in the kitchen, pushing chopped onions and mushrooms and peppers around in a skillet. He had another pan going over a second burner, with a bit of oil, and two raw steaks in some sort of pungent brown marinade ready to go in. Giles hung up his jacket, still staring, and felt both his rotten mood and his determination to have nothing to do with Angel waiver. "You cook?" he said. "You don't even eat."

Angel shrugged without looking up. "It's a new skill. Cordelia made me take this class with her at the - never mind. Where were you?"

"Out," Giles said shortly. "Where's Buffy?"

"Shower," Angel said, equally short. Giles paused, listening for the water running in the pipes. Not that Angel had any reason to lie to him, really. Satisfied, he stood by, watching as Angel laid the steaks down in the pan.

When Angel put the spatula aside and turned to face him, Giles realized one of them would have to say something. He cleared his throat. "Angel -"

"You were right."

Angel said it so quietly, Giles almost thought he'd misheard. He paused, blinked, and said, "I'm sorry?"

Angel crossed his arms over his chest. "You were right. I thought you were overreacting last night, being protective of Buffy, distrustful of me - but you were right. She wasn't ready."

Giles let out a breath. He could not help feeling slightly vindicated, but this was something he'd rather have been wrong about. "What makes you say that?"

Angel shook his head and turned back to prod the steaks with the spatula. "She's a million miles away, Giles. Even when she's lying right beside me, even when we're talking. She's not here. Was she like that at the coven?"

"No," Giles said quietly. "She was quiet, but - but present." He sighed. "Since yesterday I've been thinking - I don't know. That I was losing her. To you. But -"

"It's worse than that," Angel said. "We're just losing her."

Giles nodded. The water shut off in the bathroom. They glanced at each other and Angel turned back to the stove whilst Giles reached up into the cupboard to get plates down to set the table.

He was rummaging in the silverware drawer when Angel said, "Giles." He looked up. "I know you have every right to hate me. But I think that should stay between us. It's not her doing and she can't - we can't let it get in the way."

Giles cleared his throat, slightly ashamed that Angel had had to be the one to say it. "Yes. I quite agree."

Moments later Buffy emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and a sweet smell like honeysuckle. She was wrapped in her bathrobe, with her hair piled on top of her head, and she paused when she saw them together in the kitchen. Giles heard Angel's breath catch, just slightly. Giles thought she looked better than she had that morning - not as pale, though she might have simply been flushed from her shower.

"You're back," she said to Giles. "And you haven't killed each other yet." She sighed. "Well, that's something." She vanished into her bedroom and shut the door.

He exchanged a glance with Angel, who flipped the steaks over with twist of the wrist that almost looked natural. "She wants to patrol tonight," Angel said. "You think it's a good idea?"

Giles took the plates and silverware over the table in the dining nook. "I think it's something to do. And in that way, yes, I think it's a good idea. You are, of course, welcome to join us."

Angel nodded. "Sounds like fun."

"Oh, yes, happy days, I'm sure."

***

Their patrol went . . . well, it went. Giles rang Robson to ask where the council tended to take potentials and then led Buffy and Angel off in the other direction, toward Hyde Park. It didn't start off well - the Tube was a poor choice, Giles realized too late, even if it was relatively empty at eight-thirty on a Tuesday night - but she came alive when they met their first vampire on the edge of the cemetery Giles had chosen. Or seemed to. Giles hung back, letting Buffy and Angel toss it back and forth between the two of them, and tried to pinpoint what was bothering him.

His realization came at the exact moment Buffy's stake slid home and the vampire exploded.

No banter. She'd been utterly silent throughout the fight.

It was ironic, really, Giles reflected, as Buffy led them off through the cemetery, dodging grave stones and forcing Giles to jog to keep up. He'd spent years telling her to focus during fights, to not engage in repartee that would only get her killed. And now, the very lack of that banter made his blood run cold.

Angel was as expressionless as ever, but something in the lines around his mouth made Giles certain he'd noticed it, too. Neither of them had the time to say anything, though - and Giles didn't have the breath for it, either. Buffy kept up a grueling pace for the next two hours, pushing them through the first cemetery, then back to the Tube over Giles's objections and onto a second. By the time they finally arrived back at the flat, Giles almost stumbling in his exhaustion, it was two in the morning. They'd killed four vampires.

"That was lame," Buffy said, stripping her jacket off to drop on the bench in the entry way. It was nearly the first thing she'd said all evening. "Three hours, two cemeteries, and only four vamps. In Sunnydale it'd have been double that."

Giles picked her jacket up and hung it on the hook beside his own, trying not to let on that he had a stitch in his side so painful he could hardly straighten up. "We're not on a hellmouth here," he pointed out. "In fact, there probably isn't even a need to patrol every night."

She shrugged. "Might as well."

She disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. Giles let himself lean against the wall, hand on his side. Angel eyed him. "You okay?"

"As the only one of our merry band without greater-than-human strength, I found that rather bracing." Giles gritted his teeth and forced himself upright. "I'm fine. Buffy, however -"

"Not so fine." Angel shook his head. "She was pure slayer out there. Made me want to get out of her way."

_There are worse ideas in the world_, Giles managed not to say. Barely. He discarded a number of other options as unhelpful as well. The front of his brain knew he had to set all of that aside and deal with Angel in a civil, adult manner; the back of his brain was significantly less convinced. "I'm taking her out tomorrow," he said at last, neutrally. "I'll see if I can figure out what she's thinking."

"Feeling," Angel said, ambiguously. Giles raised his eyebrows at him and Angel shrugged. "Thinking's not the issue here. She doesn't want to feel anything, is my best guess. And she doesn't have to when she slays. Not when she's like she was tonight."

Giles nodded, frowning. "I'll see what I can find out tomorrow."

Sod all, it turned out. She took him up his offer of the cinema, and so they spent two hours in a dark room, not speaking. The film was shite and she slept through the second half. He watched her sleep, curled in the fetal position in the theater seat, and wondered what he was doing wrong - what more he could possibly do. Jane might know, but Jane wasn't here.

Afterward, he took her down to the path by the Thames and they walked along, passing beneath each of the bridges, the lights of Embankment, and the London Eye. "How are -" he began.

"Don't, Giles," she said, flatly.

"Buffy -"

"Don't," she repeated, glancing at him and away. "Please."

He obliged, even though he knew he shouldn't, and together they fell into a pattern they repeated until Giles was ready to weep out of pure frustration. Buffy, whose chatter had once made him wish permanently implanted earplugs were practical, barely spoke - at least not to him. She said more to Angel, though Angel insisted it was of little real substance. She was keeping them both at arm's length, and Giles was left wishing desperately that she would let one of them, either of them, in enough to find out what was really going on inside her head.

By the third day Giles had stopped forcing her to come out with him. She stayed in with Angel - Giles held his tongue - and he left the flat every morning for the council's offices. Sparring did nothing to decrease his growing frustration and anxiety, but between the potentials' aikido lessons and Buffy's marathon patrols, at least he was well on his way to being in the best shape of his life.

They'd been in London exactly a week when Robson caught him on his way down to the training facility for his daily pummeling. "Giles!" he heard and turned to see Robson jogging towards him, waving him to a halt. "Sorry, sorry," Robson said, catching his breath. "I wanted to catch you before you went downstairs. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Giles shook his head. It was probably rude, but the last thing he wanted was a nice, friendly chat with Robson. He wasn't up to social niceties. "Thank you, but I'm just on my way -"

"Have a cup of tea with me, Rupert," Robson said, a bit more firmly. "You won't regret it, I promise."

Giles raised his eyebrows. "Highgate?" Robson nodded. Giles shifted his duffel bag to his other hand. "All right. One cup."

Robson positively grinned at him in satisfaction and led him down the hall and up a lift to his corner office on the sixth floor. Giles made properly impressed noises. Robson had risen high in the council, enough to warrant a thick pile carpet, windows that let in brilliant natural light - or as much of it as England had to offer - and a heavy, dark, mahogany desk. Giles tried not to be envious. As watcher to the active slayer, he hardly had anything to be envious of, after all. On the other hand, he would not have minded some of the trappings of respect, if the council were so inclined to grant him them. It was not inclined, of course. Not as long as Travers was in charge.

Robson had obviously planned this, as there was a pot of tea and two cups waiting on tray on his desk. Scones as well, and clotted cream. Giles's stomach rumbled embarrassingly. Robson seated himself and waved Giles into the chair across from him. "I suspected you could use a bit of comfort food," Robson said, by way of explanation.

Giles wasn't about to argue. He sipped and nodded appreciatively. It was something spicy and unusual, but with good black tea at its heart. "Excellent."

Robson waved this away. "Eh. Middling. You've just been in America too long." Giles grimaced in agreement. "Speaking of which," Robson added, not at all smoothly, "how are things?"

Giles frowned at his tea cup. "Not as well as I'd hoped."

"I'll translate that as bloody awful. Is it the vampire or Buffy or -"

"Buffy," Giles answered with a heavy sigh. "She's - I don't know really. She's shutting me out. With Angel - well, it's about how I expected it to be. He keeps his distance."

Robson nodded in sympathy. "You'll tell me if there's anything I can do?"

"Right now the best thing you can do is give me something to think about. How are matters out at Highgate? You said you had some theories?"

"Mmm," Robson said, and lay a sheaf of papers on the desk, carefully avoiding the tea pot. "I know you've been a bit out of the loop lately, so you probably haven't heard about the mystical disturbances over the last three weeks."

Giles shook his head. "No. Here in England?"

"All over. We've reports coming in from the continent, from South America, from Australia, Africa - anywhere there are ley lines, actually. Glastonbury is a right mess. Quentin's finally given in and dispatched a team to investigate." Robson slid a sheet of paper across to him. "That's a summary of events."

Giles glanced down, skimming. Manifestations, congregations of demons in numbers not usually seen off a hellmouth, unexplained phenomena of every flavor. None of it especially alarming on its own, but within a two week period it was striking. The tabloids must be having a field day. "And you think Highgate is more of the same?"

"I do. A ley line runs straight through the Cedar of Lebanon, you know."

"But grave robbing seems so mundane compared to this," Giles said, indicating the paper. "I'd have thought - well, in Sunnydale, it usually indicated some sort of vampire cult after an artifact."

Robson shook his head. "There's been no sign of anything like that. Certainly, there are always vampires in and around Highgate, but this is something else, I believe." He paused, sipped his tea. Giles raised an eyebrow at him. "I think the spell to bring back Buffy had unforeseen consequences."

"That goes without saying," Giles said dryly.

Robson's lips quirked. "Quite. The situation with Willow, by the way - is that in hand?"

Giles winced. "That depends. Am I talking to you or to Quentin?"

The slight smile vanished. "I see."

Giles shook his head. "I can only deal with one crisis at a time. I don't think she's a danger at the moment."

Robson frowned, deeply, and leaned back in his chair. "I'm afraid I have to beg to differ, Rupert. That spell took an enormous amount of raw power, and not all of it was channeled where it should have been. I think that when she brought Buffy back, it caused a surge of mystical energy along the ley lines, the results of which are this." He tapped the summary. "It was careless and reckless, and you of all people should know what a deadly combination those two traits are when combined with power like Willow is capable of. She doesn't have to be malicious to cause a great deal of irreparable damage."

Giles wished he could rule out maliciousness entirely. Now was probably not the time to tell Robson that she'd threatened him. "I take your point."

"Good. Anyway, I'm not sure what's going on just yet. Glastonbury's had to take priority because a couple of people have been hurt, and now it looks like an American tourist has been possessed by something nasty. I just received word this morning that the team I'd lined up to investigate the Highgate issue has been sent there instead."

"It doesn't seem urgent."

"Neither did Glastonbury at first. Come now, Rupert, I can tell you're intrigued."

Giles drained the last of his tea and set his cup aside, frowning to himself. Perhaps it was just the thing, really. Certainly nothing else he'd tried had come anywhere close to breaking Buffy out of her depressive solipsism, and Robson wouldn't bother them with it if it weren't important. "All right," he said at last. "We've been patrolling every night anyway. We may as well."

"Excellent. Is ten o'clock all right with you?" Giles nodded. "Good. We'll be meeting my nephew, Alan. Bring a torch. Will the vampire be coming?"

"Probably," Giles sighed. "He is useful on occasion."

"I'm sure Alan will be fascinated." Robson checked his watch. "Damn, I must run. Meeting with Quentin."

"You have my sympathies."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Would you like to take the materials with you?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Good. See you tonight."

They parted in the hallway, Robson to his meeting and Giles down into the lower levels of the building, where he set himself up in his usual carrel in the library and spent the remainder of the afternoon paging through the file folder. It didn't contain much more information than what Robson had already given him, but there were details on the grave that had been disturbed. Strange that it was only one, he thought. He'd have been inclined to write it off, but with so many other supernatural incidents happening along ley lines, he could see why Robson was concerned.

It had been almost exactly three weeks now since the spell. Giles paused in rifling through the papers, wondering if matters were getting better or worse along the ley lines. He'd have expected the energy to dissipate after a time, but what if the effects were permanent? He'd make Willow clean it up, he thought darkly. If she could. It was a lot easier to make a mess than fix one. The Second Law of Thermodynamics unfortunately applied to magic as well.

The grave that had been disturbed belonged to a young woman, according to the file. Frances Miller had been born in 1854 and died in 1870. Younger than Buffy, good God. Perhaps she'd died in childbirth - no, Giles saw as he turned the page. There was a copy of a _London Times_ article in the folder. She'd been murdered and her body dumped on the banks of the Thames. She'd died, the article said, from a severe wound to her neck.

Robson had forgotten to mention that part. Very likely he didn't consider it relevant a hundred and thirty years after the fact. After all, vampires had killed thousands of Londoners in the last century alone. Giles knew better than to dismiss a detail like that, but now he would be forced to ask Angel if it might have been _him_, and that would be, well, awkward. He and Angel had managed a truce, but it was a truce best left untested.

The rest of the report simply confirmed what Robson had told him, in more detail. The shroud and body had been disturbed, and the grave left open to the air with the dirt piled every which way around it. Whoever or whatever had done it had clearly made no effort made to cover it up, and then, over the last few weeks, there had been other disturbances: tombs opened up and left that way, strange noises at all hours, odd drops in temperature, all of it centered around the Cedar of Lebanon. And, the report added almost dismissively at the very end, an incident on a tour, where a little girl had stood staring at the cedar for several minutes before bursting into tears and refusing to say why.

Disturbing. Very disturbing. London had hundreds of cemeteries; if someone was after bones for a spell, there were certainly easier places to get them. It made him think Robson must be right - there was something else going on here.

A surge of mystical energy in Highgate. God help him, he _was_ excited about it.


	3. Chapter 3

Ten o'clock saw Angel, Buffy, and Giles loitering outside the gates of the cemetery, trying to look as though they weren't there to cause trouble. This was made difficult by the short sword strapped to Buffy's back; Giles had his broadsword similarly arranged and had to hope his barn coat covered it up well enough.

Angel, apparently not worried about things like the London police, was tapping his battle-ax on the ground as he stared into the inky blackness of the cemetery grounds. "They've cleaned it up a lot," he said. "Last time I was here it was completely overgrown."

"When was that?" Giles asked, interested despite himself.

"The sixties, I think. Yeah, it must've been - I left for America in 1970." He glanced at Giles, looking sheepish. "It's always been a good place for brooding. And I, er -"

"Killed some of the people in there?" Giles suggested ruthlessly. He was feeling more kindly - or at least less homicidal - towards Angel these days, but he still wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to remind Buffy what he was. If he'd done that more often four years ago, perhaps Jenny would still be alive.

Angel shot him a look. "Yeah. I used to come and try and find their graves, but there were too many of them, and some of them, the writing's all rubbed away. Even the ones you could read were overgrown with ivy."

"They're still waging war on the ivy, or at least they were the last time I visited. Er, by the way, Frances Miller -"

"I was in Paris in 1870," Angel said, not even turning to look at him. "Or possibly Brussels. Definitely not London, though. I didn't come back to England until after the curse."

"Good," Giles said. That was one complication he didn't want. He glanced at his watch impatiently. "Robson should be here by now."

Buffy nodded towards two figures coming up the road. "Is that them?"

Indeed it was. Robson's nephew - Alan, he'd said his name was - was in his mid-twenties, dressed in a long black trench coat with black hair and black combat boots and a large gold feather dangling from his right ear. Giles could tell Buffy was slightly taken aback by him, though he couldn't say whether that was due to his wardrobe or his . . . the only phrase Giles could think of was _laconic enthusiasm_, for cemeteries in general and Highgate in particular. He had a bag with him, which Giles at first assumed to contain weapons - Robson was kitted out similarly to him and Buffy - but which revealed itself to hold an enormous camera.

"Very fast shutter speed," Alan said, flicking a bewildering number of buttons. "Whatever it is, I'm hoping it'll show up on film. Do _you_ show up on film?" he asked Angel.

"No," Angel said. "Though I've never tried one of those," he added, eyeing the digital camera with a skepticism nearly equal to Giles's own.

"Hmm," Alan said, and snapped a photo before any of them had time to blink. He hit a button and shook his head. "Nope."

"I don't believe we're dealing with vampires in any case," Robson said. "Did Rupert fill you both in?"

"Yeah," Buffy said with an approximation of her usual breezy sigh. "Standard mystical whatsits showing up in really unstandard numbers along ley lines, whatever those are, because Willow blew a fuse when she brought me back. I miss anything?"

"Er, no," Robson said, seeming bemused. "Good. I thought we'd break up into two groups once we get inside - Rupert, you and Buffy could take the north side, while Alan, myself, and Angel take the south, and we'll rendezvous in the Circle of Lebanon at midnight. I really think that if we see anything, it will be there, but it doesn't hurt to check the rest of the grounds. Any questions?"

"The grave," Buffy said. "Where is it?"

"North side," Robson said. "Rupert, do you have the map?"

Giles held up a rolled-up map of Highgate. "We'll find it," he told Buffy.

Alan unlocked the gates and the five of them slipped through. Giles got his torch out and flicked it on, playing it over the hill in front of them. Buffy came to stand beside him; she was utterly still, hardly even seeming to breathe. Giles waited until the others had moved off up the hill in front of them and the light from their torches had vanished into the gloom before laying his hand on her shoulder. "Shall we?" he said, lightly.

She nodded. He led the way off to the right, up the path that curved around and into the cemetery proper. It would lead them up behind the Circle, an enormous, sunken ring of tombs built around the roots of the Cedar of Lebanon, through which the Highgate ley line ran. Giles unrolled the map and realized the grave that had been robbed was quite nearby, though a bit off the beaten path. He shone his torch over the headstones, trying to avoid leading Buffy on a wild-goose chase she would not appreciate, then realized suddenly that she was no longer beside him.

Fortunately he didn't have much time to panic before he located her by the weaker light of her own torch. She'd not gone far, just a little ways up the path. She was crouched down, examining some of the headstones. "Why are these gravestones so close together?" she asked. "You can't even see the names."

"They're the graves of very poor people," he said, looking down at the top of her head, "who were buried one on top of the other, basically. The headstones ended up stacked like that. Victorian London ran out of room to bury its dead - this was before cremation was legal - and that was how they solved it."

"Oh." She stood up and walked a few feet further, torch held loosely at her side. "Some of the dates are so close together."

"A lot of children didn't survive their first decade back then."

She didn't react. She'd stopped in front of one and was staring at it with a strange expression on her face. He stood a few feet off, waiting. He expected that Highgate would provoke a reaction from her. He just didn't know what it would be yet.

"It's strange," she said at last. "I thought it'd be creepy here, but it's not."

"People find cemeteries creepy because they're afraid of their own mortality," Giles said softly. "They don't want to face it."

"Guess that's not a problem for me anymore. Don't get much closer to your own mortality than being dead. And death doesn't scare me. It was a hell of a lot easier than being alive."

She didn't wait for an answer, which was just as well because Giles didn't have one. He watched her move away from him, up the path, a dark figure outlined by torchlight, and wondered how he was supposed to get her to choose life when she knew what was on the other side and knew for certain how sweet it was. There were things in the watcher diaries about slayers' fascination with death, and he'd long suspected that it had much to do with Buffy's relationship with Angel, but he'd never truly worried about it with her before. She had so much to live for compared to some of the other slayers, and life had always just . . . radiated from her. Until those last few weeks in May, when he'd watched her slowly give up and then, finally, choose her death.

How could he possibly win against all that? What was there for her here, truly? More slaying? More death? Was he serving anyone but himself in this?

Buffy was obviously not the only one feeling the effects of the cemetery. Giles shook himself and hurried to catch up with her. He led her off in search of the vandalized grave, the two of them picking their way around the densely packed, ivy-smothered headstones by the light of their torches. Buffy easily outdistanced him; Giles let her, since he was not at all eager to fall and brain himself on a headstone. "Found it," he heard her call at last, waving the torch about.

A large tarpaulin was spread over the hole in the ground where grave had been. In the daylight it was probably visible from the path, but the cemetery had managed to pass it off as renovation thus far. Buffy shifted a heavy rock holding down one corner of the tarpaulin and Giles peeled it back before shining the torch into the hole, revealing the contents to be a narrow coffin, the wood mostly rotted away. No bones that Giles could see, though there were a few scraps of what might have been fabric clinging to the sides.

Neither of them spoke. After a few minutes Buffy backed away. They replaced the tarpaulin and the stone before returning to the path. Her face was expressionless in the yellow torchlight, her lips set in a thin line.

"What do you think?" Giles asked her.

"Robson's right. It's not vamps. Doesn't fit their MO. Not sure what it is, but it doesn't seem like there were any valuables in that grave. I mean, it wasn't a really poor one, but I'd guess she probably wasn't rich either."

Giles nodded. "I'd say you're right. And though the Victorians were very strange about death, they didn't bury large amounts of jewelry with people. I'm not sure what the motivation is, but I doubt it's that."

"So they were after the bones. Why?"

Giles shook his head. "I wish I could say. There are a number of possibilities, but nothing that fits particularly well with Robson's ley line theory."

She nodded and marched off ahead without a word. Giles followed, alert to any noise, any rustle, that might indicate a vampire or something else following them. There was none. The cemetery was eerily empty, in fact. The last time Giles had come here it had been with a group of potentials, because, as Robson had said, there were always vampires in Highgate. Except, it seemed, tonight. Had they got wind the slayer was in town and decided to stay home?

He and Buffy wandered for nearly an hour, barely exchanging ten words between them. She let him take the lead after a while, and he led her further up the hill, down a path to their left, and up a set of mossy stone steps carved into the hill. There was nothing but the sound of their breathing and the occasional breeze ruffling the ivy, and Giles discovered he was past finding the cemetery creepy, perhaps for reasons similar to Buffy's own - he'd had to face up to his own mortality years ago. He couldn't deny that it was affecting him in other ways, but it didn't frighten him.

He reached the top of the mossy steps alone. He turned and saw that she was paused halfway up near a statue of an angel and had her torch trained on its stone face. Its wings obscured her own face, but something made Giles quicken his pace as he retraced his steps to her. "Buffy?"

She was crying, he realized with a jolt. "Nothing," she muttered, lowering her torch and swiping at her cheeks with her free hand.

"It's obviously not nothing," he said, reaching to touch her arm. "Is it the statue? Did it remind you of -"

"No," she said, already pulling away from him, "it so didn't."

"Then what?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Giles. Any of it."

He chased after her. "I think you should. Please, Buffy -"

She whirled around. "Stop that. Just _stop_ it. I wish you and Angel would both just stop trying to help me, because you can't."

Giles stepped backwards. "Buffy, we just want -"

"You want me to _feel_ better," she said harshly. "Nothing is going to do that, all right? People and their stupid angel statues," she added in a mutter, turning away. "Clouds and harps and stupid _halos_. No one gets it. They think they do, but they don't."

"I know," Giles said softly. "But I wish you would at least let me try."

She didn't answer. She tossed a withering look over her shoulder at him and he fell back a few paces, wondering what the hell had just happened. Had it really been that the statue simply fell so far short of what she had experienced? She'd quickly covered up her initial reaction - tears - with anger, but it was the tears that were real. Something had moved her.

She didn't let him catch up with her after that, though he did his level best. By the time they reached the Circle he was huffing and had another bloody stitch in his side. The others were there ahead of them, standing at the top of the stairs leading up from the ring of tombs below, and had as little to report.

"Far be it from me to complain, but I find the lack of vampires rather ominous," Robson said, slapping a stake in one hand and glancing about uneasily.

"I had the same thought," Giles admitted.

"Something's scaring them off," Angel said. His shoulders were even more hunched than usual, Giles saw, and he had a hunted look about him. "I don't know what it is, but I can feel it. It wasn't so bad on the outskirts, but here -"

"Where?" Giles asked.

Angel pointed towards the Cedar of Lebanon, separated from them by an eight-foot leap across the path below. "There."

"Fine," Buffy said, without looking at any of them. She stepped back, took three running steps - "Wait, Buffy, don't!" Giles called - and vaulted over the gap to land on the grass on the other side.

"Brilliant," Alan said, grinning.

Giles said nothing, though he couldn't stop a noise of annoyance from escaping. He could see her on the other side, prowling around the base of the tree. There was no obvious way to get across to her - not for him anyway. "Angel?" he said with a sigh.

"On it," Angel said grimly, then hesitated strangely. Giles's alarm increased - what could possibly be so bad that _Angel_ feared it?

He had no time to voice his concerns. Between one breath and the next, Giles felt the temperature drop at least five degrees and the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up.

"Bloody hell, did you feel that?" Alan demanded.

"Rupert," Robson said in a low voice.

"Angel, what are you -" _waiting for_, Giles meant to finish, but never got to finish. Buffy's cry cut him off.

He raised the torch at once; it didn't provide much light at so great a distance, but it was enough for him to see that she was down on the ground, for no good reason that he could discern. He watched her struggle to her feet, fighting something he couldn't see. She kicked out, seemed to connect, then over-balanced, nearly tumbling to the ground. She whipped out the short sword and backed up, dangerously close to the edge.

"_Angel_," Giles said again, urgently. Angel unfroze and leapt across with no further hesitation, swinging his battle-ax - but it did no good against their invisible opponent, and Giles grew more and more afraid he might accidentally hurt Buffy. She'd recovered well enough from her initial surprise, but she was still much too close to the edge and the drop to the hard-packed ground below. She was fighting recklessly, much less tight and efficient than usual. Wasting energy, wearing herself out. Giles searched frantically for a way across, but there was none that he could see. He was stranded, unable to do anything but _watch_.

He swore under his breath, gritting his teeth as whatever it was forced her back yet further. She was balanced on the edge on the balls of her feet now. Once, Giles would have assumed it was part of some strategy. Now he had serious doubts that it was anything but carelessness. Or worse.

"What is it?" Robson demanded, staring more in fascination than worry.

"I have no -"

"Ghost," Alan said. Giles tore his gaze away from the fight to stare at him. "Look," he said, holding out the camera.

"It can't be a ghost, it's obviously at least semi-corporeal," Giles said, taking the camera from him - and then nearly dropped it as Buffy cried out again.

"Buffy!" Angel shouted, and Giles looked up just in time to see her tumble over the edge, just as he'd feared. Angel leapt down after her. Giles threw the camera at Alan and pelted down the steps, heart in his throat. The fall was no more than ten feet, but all he could see was her crumpled body lying at the foot of that tower.

"Don't move, Buffy, don't move," Angel was saying when Giles reached them, falling to his knees at her side. It was then that Giles saw the spreading dark stain on her stomach.

"What happened?" Giles demanded. He'd missed it completely - in the two seconds he'd taken his eyes off of her -

"Her sword - the thing - whatever it was - it turned her sword on her."

"Giles?" Buffy managed.

He grasped the hand Angel wasn't holding. "Hold still, Buffy. Robson!"

"We're going for the car," Robson called back. "Hang on - five minutes, Rupert -"

Too long, maybe. Buffy was shivering. Shocky. Giles stripped his jacket off and laid it over her, sliding one hand beneath to put pressure on the wound. He could feel the blood welling up between his fingers, warm and sticky. If they could keep her from bleeding out, keep her warm and safe, her slayer healing would take care of the worst of it by morning. Her eyes had drifted shut. "Buffy, are you with us?" he asked, squeezing her hand.

She opened her eyes to look up at him - at both of them, Giles realized. Her eyes went from him to Angel and back again, slowly. "Just like falling asleep," she whispered.

In an instant, Giles felt his terror and self-blame turn to pure, unadulterated fury. He let go of her hand and gripped her by the jaw, staring hard into her eyes, which widened in shock. "No, it is not like fucking falling asleep," he hissed. "You bloody well listen to me, Buffy - don't you dare do this! Don't you even think about it!"

"Giles!" Angel gasped.

"Giles, that hurts -" Buffy moaned, twisting her head away.

"Good," Giles said ruthlessly. "Do not go gently, Buffy, do you hear me?"

"Giles, stop it," Angel said, hand closing over Giles's wrist in an iron grip.

"Shut up," Giles snapped at him. "You didn't have to watch her fall the first time. I won't do it again, I won't!" He bent over Buffy, forcing her to meet his eyes. If she drifted off, this might well be the end - God only knew what the sword had nicked, and there was a lot of blood still welling beneath his fingers. "Remember your training, Buffy. Remember the crystals, how I taught you to hone, to find your power, your center - do that now and you can speed the healing. You've done it before, you can do it now."

"Giles, please," she said, tears trickling out the corners of her eyes, down her temples, into her hair, "please don't -"

He grabbed her hand and squeezed it as hard as he could. "Think of Dawn, Buffy," he said. "Think of Dawn and - and Xander and Tara - think of, of chocolate and churros and -" God, what was he saying? He was trying to convince her to live and he was listing off _food_? "- and all the places you haven't gone and the things you haven't seen - I haven't even taken you to bloody Harrod's yet. Think of music, that God-awful stuff you used to play in the library -"

"They have music in heaven," she said, turning her face away.

For some reason this stunned him into silence. He raised his head and met Angel's eyes; he looked just as stricken as Giles felt. He pressed harder against the wound and reached inside himself for the part of him that was her watcher - if she wouldn't fight, then he would fight hard enough for the both of them. He had no proof that it would work, but that wouldn't stop him from trying.

It couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes before the headlights of Robson's car came round the Circle, but it felt like an age. Giles scooped Buffy up before Angel even had the chance to move and crawled into the back with her. Angel followed. It was cramped with the three of them, but there was space enough for Giles to break open the first aid kit and start applying gauze. The metallic smell of blood was heavy and sickening in the enclosed space of the car.

He'd nearly stopped the bleeding by the time they came to a screeching halt - not outside a hospital, as Giles had expected, but outside the council offices. Buffy was unconscious, which was just as well since she'd have fought tooth and nail against putting herself in their hands. Giles didn't much like the idea himself, but presumably the surgeon on duty would know how best to work with her healing - or at least would know better than someone who had no notion of it at all.

Robson must have called in ahead because a team of medics came rushing out to meet them. Giles let them take over, removing himself and his blood-soaked jacket off to the side so they could lift Buffy onto a stretcher. He followed them in, close on their heels, and only when a nurse physically shut a door in his face did he turn back to join the others in the foyer. At least for once he didn't have to worry about being kept away from her because he wasn't family.

He realized then that he was shaking. He stood apart from the others, wondering why the smell of blood was still so thick in his nose, until Robson touched him on the arm and suggested he avail himself of the showers in the training facility. "I have a spare set of sweats that will fit you well enough," he added.

It was a ridiculous notion. "I'm fine," Giles said, "I can't possibly leave her now." He'd taken his eyes off her for _two fucking seconds_.

"You're covered in blood from head to foot, Rupert," Robson said firmly. "It'll be a few minutes. Go, shower, change your clothes, and come back."

Giles looked down at himself. Robson's description was not inaccurate. The knees of his jeans were ripped as well, and there was mud everywhere. But the blood - God, that was a lot of blood. How much had she lost? He was suddenly grateful for Robson's hand at his elbow, glad that for once someone else was prepared to be the adult. "All right," he said, a bit dimly. "But quickly, please."

"Of course." Robson steered him off down the hall, first to his office where they retrieved the promised sweats, and then to the showers. By the time he stepped under the spray Giles felt a bit steadier. The sting of the hot water on his bruised and scraped knees helped, even as a hundred other aches suddenly made themselves known. He hadn't even been in the fight and he felt battered.

He showered quickly, dressed in the sweats and t-shirt, and stuffed his feet back into his boots, which were miraculously blood-free. He stared for a moment at the pile of damp, bloody clothing on the wet tile. There was a trail of rust-colored water leading from it to the drain.

Robson was waiting for him on a bench outside. "Better?" he said.

Giles nodded numbly. Robson stood and took him by the arm again, leading him down the hall toward the foyer. "She'll be fine, Rupert, you'll see. I know it looked very bad, but -"

"She doesn't want to be fine," Giles said, forcing the words out through the haze of exhaustion that had suddenly set in. "She wants to go back."

Robson stopped and stared at him. "To hell?" he said incredulously.

Giles shook his head. "Wasn't in hell," he said. "Heaven." He pushed through the doors into the foyer, leaving Robson staring after him.

The doctor - or so Giles assumed from the white coat and arrogant air - was waiting for him with Alan. Angel was nowhere to be seen, which made Giles uneasy on too many levels to count. "Rupert Giles?" the doctor said, extending his hand.

"Yes," Giles said, accepting it.

"Thomas Beechwell, surgeon on duty. Buffy's going to be fine."

Giles felt his knees go. He sank down into a chair and put his face in his hands. "Oh," was all he managed.

"The sword hit her spleen, but we managed to stop the bleeding, gave her a half-pint of O-neg, and let the slayer healing do the rest. I want to keep her overnight, but there isn't any reason you can't take her home in the morning."

Giles raised his head. "Can I see her?"

Beechwell raised his eyebrows. "Of course. I'd assumed you'd spend the night. The watchers usually do. I took the liberty of asking the nurse to make up a cot for you in her room."

"Oh," he said, "yes. Right." He rubbed a hand over his face and looked at Robson and Alan. "Er, thank you," he said at last. "For - for everything."

Robson seemed to shake himself out of his state of shock. "I'll call by sometime tomorrow, Rupert," he said, clasping Giles on the shoulder. "In the afternoon, probably."

Highgate was still haunted, after all. Though somehow Giles doubted that was Robson's main concern anymore. "Yes, thank you."

To his surprise, Beechwell led him away from the clinic, through a set of double doors and then a short ways down a carpeted hallway. "She doesn't need much observation, really," Beechwell said at Giles's inquiring look. "I thought she might be more comfortable here, and we're not at capacity with for in-residence potentials right now. It's just a spare room, but at least it doesn't smell like hospital." Giles nodded, immediately feeling more kindly towards him. Beechwell gave him a sympathetic smile. "There's a call button by the bed. I'll check back in a couple of hours." He waved off Giles's rough _thank you_ and vanished back the way they'd come.

The room was small. The dim light from the bedside lamp illuminated blank walls and a single window with white curtains. Angel was sitting on the edge of Buffy's bed, holding her hand and watching the rise and fall of her chest. Giles sank down onto the cot, staring at her. She was very pale and still.

Neither of them spoke for at least an hour. Giles struggled with himself internally as he watched Angel, sitting preternaturally still at Buffy's side. Finally he drew a deep breath. He felt as though he were leaping over the side of a precipice without looking to see how far the drop was - though on second thought, that was not an analogy he wished to use after all. "I don't think I've ever been that scared."

Angel raised his head to look at Giles. "Her pulse is strong. She'll be fine, like the doctor said."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know. Giles." Angel stopped. "I asked you this once before," he said at last, very carefully, "and you said I wasn't allowed to ask it again. I'm going to ask anyway, and I'd like you to give me the benefit of the doubt. Are you all right?"

Giles shook his head. "That night," he began and then found he couldn't go on. "I'm so angry with her," he whispered, when the ache in his throat had subsided at last. "For - for choosing that when there were other ways out. I'm bloody furious with her."

"I got that," Angel said, a bit dryly. "So will she, I think, if she remembers."

Giles put his face in his hands. "I've been feeling angry for weeks and I didn't know why."

"Knowing helps," Angel said, carefully. "I think . . ." He paused. "I think we've both been walking on eggshells around Buffy, wanting to give her what she needs and wants. And I'm not saying we shouldn't help her as best we can, but - but do you think maybe you should start thinking about what you need and want? I love Buffy, you know I do, but she can be kinda, er -"

"Yes, yes," Giles said hastily. He knew more or less how Angel wanted to finish that sentence - _self-centered_ would have done quite well. So too would _self-involved_. Depression would have made both those qualities worse in anyone. But on the offhand chance Buffy could hear them, neither of them wanted to say it out loud. He sighed. "I needed more time at the coven. I should have insisted for both our sakes, but I didn't. And now we're right back where we were. Worse."

Angel shook his head. "I know what it looked like earlier, with Buffy. But she's here. She's alive. If she really wanted not to be -"

"She wouldn't be," Giles finished. "Maybe." He wanted more than anything to believe it. But he knew what it was to be betrayed by one's body; he'd always experienced it as weakness at the moment when he most needed strength, but perhaps it could run the other way as well - a weak spirit, but a willing body.

A few more minutes went by in silence, until at last Angel stirred and said, "Sorry about this, but your friend Robson recommended I not spend the night here. I didn't want to leave till I knew you'd both be okay, but I should go."

"Oh, yes," Giles said. "Quite right." He felt strangely sorry, actually, that Angel had to leave - not that it wasn't for the best. If Giles weren't wholly focused on Buffy, he'd have thought of that. Thank God Robson had been there tonight, in so many ways. "I'll bring her home in the morning."

Angel stood. "When she wakes up, tell her I love her?"

Giles nodded, for once not tempted to make any sort of retort. Angel left, casting one last glance over his shoulder. Giles immediately took his place on the bed and then, feeling that wasn't enough, settled himself beside her, leaning against the headboard. He shifted her onto his lap and closed his eyes, feeling for the pulse in her neck with hands that had never stopped shaking.

Beechwell came by at three-thirty, just as he'd promised, waking Giles from his light sleep. Giles was embarrassed at being caught with his slayer more or less in his lap, but Beechwell didn't seem the least bit surprised. He checked Buffy's vitals, pronounced them strong, and left. Giles dozed again until gray light began creeping in the window and Buffy finally stirred.

He knew she was awake by some indefinable shift in her weight in his arms. He could tell she knew he was awake as well, but neither of them said anything for some time, while the gray light trickling in through the window brightened by degrees. Then she asked, in a rough voice, "Where am I?"

Giles cleared his throat. "The council." She tensed instantly, then gasped. He tightened his arms around her. "It's all right. Robson brought us here - it's better for you than a hospital would have been, and we can go home as soon as you feel up to it." He stroked her hair briefly. "How are you?"

"Sore," she said, "but it's healing. Not dangerous anymore."

He nodded. They both fell silent. She leaned against him, and Giles was reminded of those days at the coven, when all sorts of barriers had seemed to fall away between them. He only ever held her in extremis, he thought. It had always been so. "Where's Angel?" she asked at last.

"Back at the flat. He said to tell you he loves you."

"Wow. I must've scared the bejeezus out of you for you to be relaying messages like that."

"I was terribly, terribly frightened for you, yes," he said, letting some of the emotion he'd spent all night suppressing creep into his voice. She craned her neck around to look at him. "What do you remember?"

There was a split-second hesitation. "Not much. Did we get an ID on our big bad?"

She was lying. Giles was as certain of it as he'd ever been. She remembered exactly what had happened; she simply didn't wish to speak of it, and she was relying on his circumspection to get her out of it. He stared down at the top of her head. Push the matter now or wait until she was stronger? He might not get another chance. He opened his mouth to say something - _You were reckless and careless and nearly got yourself killed again_ \- and found he couldn't. Not now.

"Giles?" she prompted at last.

"Er, perhaps," he said, stumbling a little over the words. "Alan seemed to have some ideas. Robson said he'd stop by the flat this afternoon. You needn't concern yourself with it." He hoped she wouldn't, as a matter of fact. He knew better than to flat-out forbid her from going back to the cemetery, but he planned on doing everything in his power to prevent it. "Can I get you anything? Water, or I could fetch the doctor?"

She shook her head. "I'd like to sleep some more. The slayer healing really takes it out of me when it's in high gear." She pushed herself up, carefully. "If you help me shift over a bit, you could lie down for real. Sleeping sitting up like that can't be good for your back."

Giles nearly came back with a snippy reply about how anyone over forty must be ready for a walker in her mind, until his back gave a ferocious twinge that reminded him she had a point. "I - er, that is, thank you, but there's actually a cot one of the nurses set up for me. I'll just change over to that."

"Oh. Okay."

He helped her lie down, then tucked the blankets around her, smoothing the hair back from her forehead with his palm once he was done. She turned her head to the side to watch him get into bed. They watched each other for what felt like a long time to Giles, but probably wasn't more than a few minutes. It felt like the sort of silence into which one eventually divulged a secret. But she kept her silence, and at last her eyes drifted shut. Disappointed, but shamefully relieved as well, Giles followed her into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Giles woke to Buffy's hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly. He blinked briefly in bemusement at being back in his bedroom at the flat, then remembered - hazily - a bleary, early-morning ride home in a council car, so as to avoid running into Quentin. His exhaustion had been thick enough and obvious enough that Angel had taken one look at him and suggested he go back to bed. Giles had hardly blinked before heeding him, not even sparing a thought for leaving the two of them alone together. It had scarcely seemed necessary after last night, and he found constantly claiming the moral high ground to be wearing.

Surroundings accounted for, Giles rubbed his eyes and realized Buffy was holding the cordless phone out to him. "Who?" he managed.

"Jane. And Robson's here."

"Oh." He shoved himself up. "What time is it?"

"Almost two."

He'd not intended to sleep so long. He took in Buffy for the first time - she wore black yoga pants and an over-large shirt Giles assumed belonged to Angel. She looked tired and a bit pale, but certainly not as though she'd taken a major stomach wound the night before. "How are you?"

She shrugged. "Fine." Her mouth twisted wryly as she handed him the phone. "Better than you, if we go by the state of our hair."

He harumphed at her and she left, almost smiling. "Hello?" he said into the receiver.

"Sorry to wake you, Rupert," Jane said. "I told Buffy not to, but she said you had to get up anyway."

"Yes," he managed through a yawn. "Robson's here and there's a ghost in Highgate. Or something."

"So I heard."

"Buffy told you?"

"Yes. We spoke at some length, actually."

Giles settled himself up against the headboard. "Then you must have heard about our excitement last night."

"Some. Though I think she might have withheld a few salient details," Jane added dryly. "Care to give me your version of events?"

He wasn't entirely sure he did. In the light of day, he felt mortified that he'd lost such control of himself. He supposed he could hardly deny that the anger was real, but he should never have let it show like that. Not then, not when Buffy - not then. Shameful. Cringe-worthy.

"Rupert?" Jane prompted after a moment.

On the other hand, keeping secrets from those who wished to help him had rarely worked out well. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back against the headboard, and kept his voice low as he related what had happened in the cemetery and then his and Buffy's non-conversation about it that morning. He wished now that he'd pressed her after all. Such an opportunity was not likely to present itself again, and if Robson was here then other matters were about to intervene.

Jane said nothing until he wound down. Then she sighed and said, "Well, I have to give you credit, Rupert. You figured it out much sooner than I thought you would."

Giles mouthed wordlessly for a few seconds. "You knew?" he managed at last.

"Oh yes. I could see it in your aura when you were here. That's part of the reason I was so keen for you and Buffy to stay longer," she added pointedly. "I thought it would be best for you both if you were here when you finally sussed it out."

"I . . . see."

"Do you?" she said gently, and then, before he could even begin to answer, added, "May I tell you what I saw when the two of you were here?"

"Could I stop you?" Giles asked dryly.

She ignored this, to his dismay. "You are devoted to her. Utterly. You give her more than you have to give, to the exclusion of others and yourself. And she lets you."

"Hold on," he said, frowning, "that's hardly fair. She's been ill. You can't blame me for doing what I thought was necessary for her to get better."

"No, I can't. But I can blame you for shoving aside and burying every emotion you deem counter-productive to her recovery - including some very real, very potent, very _understandable_ anger. You've been handling her with kid-gloves, Rupert, sheltering her from the consequences of her actions."

Giles was silent for nearly a minute out of sheer surprise. The last thing he'd expected was for Jane to agree with Angel on this. "Are you saying I've been . . . enabling her?"

Jane made a noise that might almost have been a laugh. "That's a bit more American than I would put it, but I suppose so, yes."

"But she seemed to be getting better at the coven. It - whatever I was doing, it was working."

"It's easy to be better when faced with endless understanding and kindness. That's not how the world works, though. And after a certain point -"

"I'm not at all sure we've reached that point yet," Giles said, with some relief at finally feeling his feet under him in this conversation. "Last night -"

"Last night she got a glimpse of what you're really feeling," Jane said firmly. "And I think - based on my conversation with her and what she didn't say - that you've given her a lot to think about. Let her mull it over."

Giles frowned. "I shouldn't broach the subject with her?"

"I'd let it go for a bit and see what happens. Trust me on this, Rupert."

_Trust me_. He'd said the same to Buffy two weeks ago, secure in his certainty that he'd be able to help her as he always had before. Rest, and peace, and quiet, as Angel had said. They'd had that at the coven. But she'd chosen to come here - too soon, perhaps, but then again, staying longer at the coven might have only made it more difficult to leave. He - and Angel, yes, he had to be fair - had tried to give her the same here, as much rest, peace, and quiet as London had to offer, as much as was in his power to give, but it wasn't the same. He'd failed her, or so he'd thought.

He loved her more than he would ever love anyone else in this life, far more than was wise. And now Jane and Angel were both telling him he had to give _less._

Giles wasn't sure he knew how, with Buffy.

Jane didn't prompt him to speak this time, simply waited on the line until at last Giles cleared his throat. "All right."

"Good," Jane said, sounding pleased - or perhaps relieved. "I shall leave you to your ghosts then. But don't hesitate to call if you need anything."

"I won't. Er." Giles hesitated. "Thank you, Jane."

"Don't be silly, Rupert. It's my prerogative as an old friend to help you dig yourself out of whatever great muddy hole you've landed in this time." With that parting shot, she rang off.

Giles sat frowning in bemusement for a minute, then finally sighed and forced himself up and into the loo. He dressed in jeans and a jumper, tamed his hair (Buffy had been right), and went out into the lounge. The blinds were down again and a rather bleary Angel was pouring coffee in the kitchen. Robson and Buffy leaned over some photographs spread across the table in the dining nook. Giles exchanged good morning's - good afternoon's, really - with Robson while he put the phone back on its hook, then accepted a cup from Angel with a grateful nod.

He went to stand over Buffy's shoulder. She darted a glance up at him and away again too fast for him to react. He hesitated, then settled a hand on her shoulder.

"I take it these are Alan's photos?" he said.

"Yes," Robson said, handing Giles one of the eight by ten glossies.

Giles felt a chill creep up his spine. It showed Buffy on the ground, kicking upwards. He'd seen nothing the night before, but the photo showed a vague white blur where her opponent should have been. He took the next one Robson handed him - there it was again, with Angel's battle-ax passing straight through it. That photo was particularly unsettling, since Angel didn't show up on film either, so it appeared as though the ax were simply floating in mid-air.

"I remember that," Angel said, when Giles handed it to him. "I thought I felt it catch on something, but then it just went through. Threw me off balance."

"Buffy?" Giles said, glancing at her. "What did it feel like to you?"

She shook her head, sifting through the photos on the table. "Way weird. Cold and kinda . . . not wet, but like it. Solid, though, or at least she threw me down hard enough. But I couldn't get any of my punches to land."

"So it can fight us, but we can't fight it," Angel said grimly. "Great."

"Is Alan still convinced it's a ghost?" Giles asked Robson.

He nodded. "And I'm inclined to agree."

"But it's corporeal," Giles said, setting aside his coffee cup so as to have both hands free to to look through the photos. "Or near enough."

"_Near enough_ is the key, I think," Robson said. "That must be the effects of the ley line energy. Think of it, Rupert. It's been in that cemetery for a century and a half, drifting, until Willow's spell sent an enormous wave of energy towards it and . . . woke it, perhaps?"

"Could there've been, I dunno, spillage?" Buffy asked, looking up suddenly. "It was a resurrection spell. Could she be resurrecting?"

Giles looked at her sharply. "How do you know it's a she?"

Buffy gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I just do. I mean, who did we think it was? It had to be Frances."

"That is one possibility," Robson said, carefully.

Buffy shook her head decisively. "Believe me, it's Frances. But could she be resurrecting?"

Robson shrugged. "I don't rule it out, especially given the nature of the spell and the ghost's semi-corporeality. What none of this tells us," he added with a sigh, "is who or what has been robbing the graves."

Giles had almost forgotten about that in all the excitement. He grimaced, nodding, and the four of them fell silent. Giles watched Buffy's profile as she bent over the photos again, examining them more closely. He could see her mulling something over as she stared at the one that had given Giles chills before.

He caught Angel's eye. Angel gave him the slightest nod and Giles frowned; Angel clearly thought they should let Buffy keep on with the investigation if she wanted. Giles didn't exactly disagree, but the idea of letting her anywhere near that cemetery again made him feel sick.

Giles had stopped considering the problem altogether and was simply watching her, attempting to control the fear uncurling in his stomach, when she finally raised her head and said, "What if it does tell us who's been robbing the graves?"

Robson frowned. "What do you mean?"

Buffy leaned on the back of chair. "Okay, say you're a ghost. Something's made you corporeal again, able to touch stuff, move stuff." She paused, looking straight at Giles. "What do you want?"

No one answered. Giles frowned at her - and then suddenly understood. He sat abruptly in the chair she'd been leaning on and covered his mouth with his hand. She claimed the chair next to him, curling one foot up beneath her and leaning her chin in her hand, watching him. "Good lord," he managed at last.

"What?" Robson asked.

"It - she," he amended, at Buffy's look, "she robbed her own grave. She's not resurrected yet, but she wants to be." Buffy nodded. "If she had her bones, in any condition, and a sufficient amount of mystical energy, that might be enough to create some sort of body."

Angel and Robson - particularly Robson - looked stunned. "Is that . . . possible?" Angel asked at last.

Giles raised his eyebrows at Robson, who shook his head. "I - I don't quite know," Robson admitted. "I suppose it would depend on the original surge of energy." He stood suddenly and began gathering up the photos. "Never mind. It can't be allowed to go any further - dangerous, extremely dangerous -"

"Why?" Buffy asked. "All she's trying to do is come back to life. It's no more than what Willow did to me, and if she wants it -"

"It doesn't matter," Robson said.

"But Will's spell -"

"You were lucky," Giles said softly. Her head came around sharply. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but you were. Resurrection spells are exceedingly dangerous, for both the sorcerer and the subject. They can go terribly wrong."

"I've seen it," Angel confirmed. "And believe me, I wish I hadn't."

"The energy is too unfocused," Giles said. "What comes back will be remnants at best. Not alive, not dead."

"And angry, if last night is anything to go by," Robson added grimly. "It could cause a great deal of harm if let loose in London."

Buffy crossed her arms over her chest, looking unsettled. "So what do we do?"

"Exorcism, wouldn't you say?" Giles said to Robson.

Robson nodded, gathering up his coat and the manila envelope with the photographs. "I'll need to do some research to find the appropriate spell - all the ones I know off the top of my head are for casting demons out of people -"

"She's not a demon," Buffy said, bring a hand down on the table with enough force to make them all jump. "She's Frances."

"It's not," Robson said. "It was once, yes, but now it's dangerous."

"She nearly killed you last night," Giles reminded her, in as even a voice as he could manage.

Buffy shook her head, hand stealing to her stomach. "I know. Believe me, I'm not gonna forget that, but . . ." She frowned, looking suddenly abstracted. "I got close enough to touch her. And she's - yeah, okay, she's royally pissed, but she's still herself. Or maybe that's part of the ley line stuff, too?"

Giles glanced at Robson, who shrugged. "I'll do my best to find something appropriate," Robson assured her. "Angel, would you be willing to lend a hand tonight? Alan and I will go round about eleven, I expect, to set up for the ritual at midnight."

Angel grimaced, and Giles remembered his strange reluctance the night before. Frances was not fond of vampires, for obvious reasons. "Sure," he said, nevertheless.

"Wait, we're not going?" Buffy said to Giles.

"You're injured," Robson pointed out.

"Not really," Buffy said, smoothing her hand over her stomach again. "And by tonight -"

"You're not going," Giles said flatly.

It was exactly what he'd told himself he wouldn't do. Forbidding her outright, he'd thought just the night before, was not the way to go. But now, faced with returning to Highgate with her, he couldn't do it, not even when she stared at him in incredulity and said, "What? Why not?"

He gave her a swift look - it was a foolish question, and one she could answer for herself if she wished - then cleared the coffee cups off the table and took them into the kitchen, where he commenced the washing up. There was a brief silence in the other room before the conversation picked up again; he couldn't hear what they were saying, but plans for that evening seemed likely. He gritted his teeth. He had not the slightest hope Buffy would see reason on this.

When the door to the kitchen swung open at last, it was not Buffy as he'd half-hoped, half-dreaded, but Robson. Giles had begun chopping vegetables for soup by then, hoping it would bring his blood-pressure down. Robson leaned against the counter, watching him. Giles said nothing.

"Willow," Robson said at last.

Giles laid the knife down. "For the love of - what in name of God makes you think now is a good time to have this conversation with me?"

"You've been avoiding this conversation since you got here," Robson said, in a very rare show of temper. "In fact, you've been _lying_ to me. My God, man, if Travers knew -"

Giles's head came up. "Why would Travers know?"

"That wasn't a threat, Rupert. It was hypothetical. And frankly it's the least of my worries." Robson planted both hands on the counter, leaning in. "Why are you protecting her? What she did - it was alarming enough when I thought she'd saved Buffy's soul with it, but now? She has to be dealt with."

"I am dealing with her. Jane Harkness is aware of the situation. We're monitoring it."

"From six thousand miles away?" Robson shook his head. "I think we're past that, don't you? Or we would be, if it were anyone but one of your collection of children."

Giles rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand - the onions were making them water - and sighed. "I failed her," he admitted quietly. "I knew what she was into. I locked the books away, but I knew she stole them anyway. She was too curious, too thirsty for knowledge, and had utter faith in her ability to handle whatever got thrown at her. Too clever by half, our Willow." He looked up. "She's me, twenty-five years ago."

"And you know where that led," Robson said, a harsh note in his voice.

Giles nodded. "I should have done a better job at - at educating her. Probably should have scared her some about what can happen. But . . . Buffy was - is - my charge. The others always got second best from me, because the stakes were never as high."

"Understandable, unless one of the others is a witch of significant power. In which case it's criminally negligent." Giles didn't answer, though he had to physically bite his tongue to prevent himself. It'd do no good, and Robson was right: if Quentin found out, Willow's days would be numbered indeed. For her sake, he couldn't afford to anger Robson. "I'll leave it be for now," Robson said at last. "At least until after this mess she's created up at Highgate is sorted."

"Thank you," Giles said, albeit through clenched teeth.

Robson shook his head. "Don't thank me yet."

He left the kitchen. Giles pushed the pile of onions to one side on the cutting board and started in on the carrots. From beyond the closed door he heard the muffled sounds of Robson taking his leave. Once he'd gone, Angel said something indistinct to Buffy and Giles heard the door to his bedroom shut. The living room went silent. Giles chopped carrots moodily.

He fully expected Buffy to have gone with Angel. After a moment, though, he heard the door to the kitchen ease open and the whisper of her bare feet on the kitchen tile.

"Giles?"

He kept his head down. He couldn't look at her, and he didn't trust himself to speak. He simply didn't know what he'd say, given half the chance.

"Giles, I'll try not to get involved," she said at last. "I swear. But if she decides to get pissy with Robson -"

"Then he has Angel," Giles replied in a low voice. He turned to her and was vindictively satisfied when her eyes widened and she took a step back. "There is no good reason, Buffy, none at all, that you should go back tonight to a place where you nearly died, and no discernible reason you should want to."

She stared, her lips parted in, perhaps, astonishment. Then her jaw set, she crossed her arms over her chest, and her eyes narrowed. "Unfinished business. First rule of slaying - don't leave any."

"Oh, is that the first rule now?"

"It is since the ship pretty much sailed on _don't die_." She was glaring at him outright; was she angry at him for being angry at her, or was it something else? He was so very sick of trying to guess what she was thinking. "I'm the slayer, Giles. It's my job to take care of these things. I was too old to be sneaking out of windows before I died and got yanked out of heaven, so you're just gonna have to deal."

That was it. He shoved the cutting board with its pile of chopped white onions and half-chopped carrots into the sink in one furious move. "Damn it, Buffy! I brought you here to help you get better, not watch you self-destruct right in front of me!"

She said nothing, merely looked back at him impassively until he was forced to turn away, closing his eyes against the sight of her. He felt the anger leech out of him, leaving him suddenly exhausted. Boiled dry. "If that's what you want," he said, his voice ringing hollow in his own ears, "then I can't stop you. But for the love of God." He opened his eyes and forced her to meet them. "Don't make me watch it again."

He pushed past her through the doorway, grabbed his jacket off the hook, and left.

***

He spent two hours wandering the streets around their neighborhood and another two sitting in a café, nursing a pot of tea and wondering why it wasn't doing more for his nerves. He picked up curry takeaway on his way home, which he and Buffy ate in silence while Angel sipped his evening O-neg and looked extremely uncomfortable. Good. In that, at least, the three of them were unanimous.

After dinner the two of them settled on the sofa to watch television while Giles sat at the table and paged through a book on ley lines. He had confidence that Robson would find a suitable ritual for the exorcism; what Giles wanted to find out was how to solve the more fundamental problem. As much as he'd have liked to make Willow do it, she was six thousand miles away, and so it would be up to him.

By ten-fifteen, when Buffy switched the TV off, Giles had finally found a ritual that might work. It worked a bit like a tourniquet, he thought, studying the diagram in the book; he'd do a spell to pinch off the ley line, which would keep any mystical energy at all from coming through it for two or three days, after which normal activity should resume. It required blood from the caster, which made Giles wince, but sometimes it couldn't be avoided. If the exorcism required blood as well, though, it'd have to be content with Robson's. Bleeding for two different spells in the same evening was extremely ill-advised.

There was a bite in the air tonight that promised a long winter not far off. Giles wore a thick jumper beneath his barncoat. Angel was his usual hulking dark shadowy self, and even Buffy looked all business in a black turtleneck sweater tucked into black jeans. She said nothing to Giles as they left the flat. She led the way to the Tube station to catch a Northern line train towards Highgate. He and Angel both found seats when the car emptied out at the next stop, but Buffy stayed standing, holding onto one of the overhead rails and shifting her weight with the sway of the train. Giles exchanged a glance with Angel, who shook his head, his mouth a flat, worried line.

Highgate was quiet this late at night, save for a couple of brightly lit pubs along the main road. They climbed the hill to the cemetery and found Robson and Alan waiting for them this time. Robson raised his eyebrows at Giles in not-quite surprise; Giles merely shook his head.

"What did you find?" Giles asked him, as Alan - who once more carried his enormous camera, this time slung around his neck - unlocked the gates to let them in.

Robson grimaced. "Not much. I found lots of spells to expel spirits from buildings and people, but very little for outdoor areas. There was one for sanctifying a space - an adapted version of the _rituale romanum_." He held it out for Giles's perusal. "I thought it might work best if we trapped it in a pentagram first, though I worry about the spell's effect on Angel if he's inside."

Giles frowned. "True." He beckoned Angel over and showed him the spell. "This is what we were thinking of using - any guesses on what it would do to you if you were inside the pentagram when we did the ritual?"

Angel read through it, then shrugged. "Probably it'd toss me out on my ass. It can't actually hurt me."

"Are you all right with that?"

"Is there an alternative?"

Giles supposed there was, in a manner of speaking. He looked pointedly towards Buffy, who fortunately was intent enough on ignoring him that she didn't notice. He glanced back; Angel shook his head. Good. "Well," Giles said, "at least we'll know when the spell works." Angel's lips twisted in appreciation of the irony.

They all went up through the cemetery together this time, with a stop at the landscaper's shed for a ladder. Giles fell back to walk beside Buffy, who was bringing up the rear of their little torch-lit group. She was tossing a stake from one hand to the other, but Giles knew better than to mistake her nonchalance for calm. She didn't pause to look at the gravestones tonight, nor the statues of angels. There was, in fact, an air of grim determination about her that Giles didn't much like.

He cleared his throat. "You did promise me you'd stay well out of this, if at all possible."

She shrugged.

"You will, won't you?" Another shrug. Giles grasped her arm and forced her to stop, letting the others go on ahead of them. "Buffy, please promise me."

"Giles, you have to stop this," she said, glaring at him. "I get it, all right? You're mad at me for dying -"

"I'm not mad at you for dying!" he snapped, keeping his tone low with some effort. "I'm mad at you for _killing yourself_!"

She yanked her arm out of his hand. "So dying's okay, but controlling where and when and how isn't?"

"Giving up isn't okay," he said, gritting his teeth. "Despair isn't okay. Choosing death because it's the easy way out _isn't okay_."

She spun away from him and started up the hill again, sweeping her torchlight across the path in careless arcs. "You don't get it," she said. "I didn't even get it. Spike tried to tell me and I didn't believe him. But you." She turned on her heel, bringing Giles up short. "You don't get to judge me. You sent me out, every night, to stake the people I couldn't save. And now you blame me for taking the easy way out? When all I had to look forward to was night after night of more of the same until one of the people I couldn't save got the better of me? Well, fuck you, too, Giles."

She put on a burst of slayer speed and left him in the dust. Even after he caught up with the others as they entered Egyptian Avenue, a long, covered hall of tombs, she kept her distance, always at least fifteen feet from wherever he was. Angel noticed and raised his eyebrows at Giles, who merely shook his head.

They reached the Circle then, which at least gave Giles something else to think about. They clambered up the ladder to the cedar tree one by one, Buffy leading the way. She looked at Giles, daring him to object. He didn't.

He willed himself to turn his mind away from her and concentrate on the spell. He and Robson set up the pentagram, with an unlit candle at each of the five points connected by sand mixed with Robson's blood. Once the pentagram was sealed and the ghost trapped inside, no one could enter or leave until the ritual was done without breaking the spell. If that happened - well, Giles thought they'd burn that bridge if it came to it. He fervently hoped it wouldn't, since getting the ghost to sit still for another try would be impossible.

There wasn't much space inside the pentagram, so debate ensued about who would stay within and who would wait outside. Robson and Giles had to be inside, of course, and Alan didn't seem particularly heart-broken to watch with his camera from where he, Giles, and Robson had stood the night before. Giles had been hoping to avoid an argument with Buffy, since they'd already agreed that Angel would be on hand in the event something went wrong. But, predictably, she was inclined to argue.

"Frances was killed by vamps and she _really_ doesn't like them," she pointed out, crossing her arms over her chest. "She's more likely to get snippy if he's in the circle than if I am."

She was probably right. Giles didn't care. "You're injured," he said flatly.

She pulled her shirt up and shined her torch on the flat plain of her stomach, revealing a shiny pink scar. "I'm really not."

He turned away. "You wait with Alan. Angel is with us."

"But -"

"Buffy," Angel said quietly. "You heard Giles. Come on, this is what we agreed on earlier."

She glared at them both stubbornly for a moment, then jumped down over the wall. Giles almost swallowed his tongue before he saw her and her torch move up the stairs on the other side to join Alan. She sat down, legs dangling over the edge, torch in her lap.

"Thank you," Giles said to Angel.

He shrugged. "She had a point, you know. At least the spell wouldn't send her airborne."

"If you'd rather not -"

"I didn't say that. And that's not my point."

"Which is?"

Angel looked at him steadily. "How long are you going to coddle her? She's not your daughter, she's your slayer."

Giles could have punched him. Instead he gritted his teeth and said, "I'll coddle her as long as I think she's trying to get herself killed."

"She isn't really, you know."

"She wouldn't mind if it happened, and that -" Giles shook his head. "It comes to the same thing in the end."

Angel was silent for a moment. Robson, Giles noticed, had meandered off conveniently to the other side of the cedar, leaving the two of them alone. "Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't. Giles, I've seen a lot of despair in my time - caused a lot of it and felt a lot of it, too. When I first saw Buffy after she came back, that was what she looked like to me. But she isn't . . ." He paused, thoughtfully. "That's not who she really is." He smiled, briefly, fondly. "It's not her style."

Giles sighed. "You've no idea how I wish I could believe it was that simple."

Angel leaned on his battle ax, studying him. "How did she seem to you this afternoon? When we were talking with Robson, I mean, not after."

Giles shrugged, looking towards her. She'd laid her torch down beside her on the ground and was in shadow too deep for him to see her very well, but she was sitting with one leg drawn up and seemed to be listening to Alan go on about something to do with his camera. "Normal, I guess. Or nearly so." As though she'd forgotten the last three weeks, almost. As though they were in the Magic Box last year before Glory began ripping great, ragged holes in the fabric of their lives, and she'd finally solved the puzzle.

Angel nodded. "You see? I won't say she's fine. But she's better, Giles, she really is."

"And last night?" he said, involuntarily glancing over the edge to where Buffy had fallen the night before. "What was that?"

Angel shrugged. "A relapse? It happens. It'll probably be happening to her for a long time. That's what you're here for."

Giles looked at him sharply. "And you."

Angel shook his head. "Extenuating circumstances. What was true two years ago is still true now. She should have someone who can sit with her in sunlight." He looked down at the ground and twisted the ax so its tip dug into the soft soil. "Once this is all over, I think it'd be best if I left."

Giles said nothing for a moment. He could not deny that he felt profoundly relieved at this news - and yet it was not unambiguous relief. Angel clearly had Buffy's best interests at heart, even if he didn't always do what Giles thought was best for her. He'd been grateful for Angel's presence the night before, certainly.

But Giles, of course, didn't know what was happening between the two of them. If Angel felt it was best for him to leave, it might be because staying would be dangerous for them all. "If you think that's the right thing to do," he said at last.

"Rupert!" Robson called. "Midnight in two minutes!"

There wasn't time to say anything more; Angel was already moving away to stand by the tree, well inside the pentagram. Robson was in position on the opposite side of the cedar. Giles took up his own position and waved his hand, lighting the five candles with a low-voiced word of power.

As irritated as Giles had been at Buffy's insistence on coming along, he was glad to be here; he'd not have liked to leave Robson on his own to deal with this. He could tell, as Robson joined his power to Giles's, that Robson would have had a hard time carrying it off on his own. Giles had relatively little raw power compared to someone like Willow, but his experience and precision made up for it. Robson had significantly less power than he did, though, and even less experience. He might have done all right with it in the end, but it'd have been touch and go.

Once the candles were lit, it was only a matter of waiting for the ghost to show herself. Giles held his breath, listening to the utter stillness of the cemetery. It should not have been so quiet, he thought. It'd struck him as eerie the night before, but now he thought it was more than eerie - it was unnatural.

There. He was prepared this time for the tell-tale drop in temperature. It still raised bumps on the back of his arms and sent a chill up his spine, but that was nothing to what he felt seconds later, with the arrival of of an unmistakable _presence_. That was a douse of cold water, a full-body shiver. Giles felt more than heard Robson's swift, in-drawn breath, and Angel, who had been leaning against the cedar and frowning at his battle-ax, straightened suddenly. Quickly, in near-unison, Giles and Robson spoke the words to seal the pentagram.

The candles flared, illuminating briefly the cedar and Angel beneath its branches. There was a sudden gust of wind and an unearthly shriek as the ghost realized she'd been trapped. Angel shouted as she threw him to the ground in a fit of pique. Giles could feel her rage, confusion, and a healthy dose of fear. Buffy had been right, though - her sense of self was strong, much stronger than was usual for a ghost so old.

"Giles!" Angel called over a sudden, howling gust of wind. He struggled to his feet. "Faster would be better!"

Giles didn't waste time answering. "Robson? Are you ready?" His _yes_ came back faintly, whipped away on the wind, but the accompanying surge in magic was clear enough. Giles pulled a vial of holy water from his pocket; on the other side of the cedar, he felt Robson bring out a crucifix. The two of them began pacing clockwise around the cedar, Giles sprinkling the water as he went and doing his best to keep it away from Angel. He spoke the words in clear church Latin, requesting that the space be sanctified of everything unholy: "Exorcizo te, spiritus immunde, ut discedas hoc."

He knew it was working when, halfway around the circle, he felt a spike in the ghost's fear and rage. Angel was suddenly knocked backwards, towards the edge of the pentagram and Giles realized with a start that she was more clever than he'd given her credit for. She was trying to break the circle's seal - if Angel passed through it, she would be able to get through as well, and Giles couldn't break off the chanting to warn him without having to start everything over again.

Angel didn't need the warning. Giles watched with relief as he rolled to the right, away from the edge, and let out a yelp as that brought him into contact with the holy water sprinkled on the grass. The ghost left off long enough for him to stagger to his feet, clutching his faintly smoking hand, and back away from the edge, looking about for the next attack. He looked extremely unnerved. Not that Giles could blame him.

He and Robson were nearly back at their original positions now; the circle was nearly complete. The air inside the pentagram had grown thick with gathering power, but not all of it was theirs. Giles frowned, pushing back at it with his own, and realized it was coming from the cedar tree - the ley line. It was pulsing, _brimming_ with energy, and near the cedar's base, crouched down, was the ghost. He still couldn't see her properly, but he could sense her through the magic, pulling the ley line energy towards herself as though it were a rope she was gathering in, hand over methodical hand.

Whatever she intended, it boded no possible good. Only one way to end this. Giles took a deep breath, drawing on his own power and Robson's. He spread his arms and the candles flared. "Exorcizo te," he called, tilting his face up to the sky - the faint red of the London night washed away to deep blue overhead, "spiritus immunde, ut discedas hoc. Exorcizo te. Exorcizo te!"

A gust of wind swept through the pentagram again, much stronger this time, carrying with it the faint scent of incense, of salt air, of cedar. It blew out all the candles at once. Angel shouted wordlessly, and tumbled backwards, over the edge of the pentagram and over the side, expelled from the sanctified space. The spell had worked.

Except . . . it hadn't.

Giles went utterly still. He felt Robson relax, withdrawing his power. "Don't -" he began to call out, but it was too late. The circle was already broken and now almost half the power was withdrawn. He felt a surge of triumph from the ghost, grown much stronger in the scant few seconds since the spell. Not alive, not yet, but close, so much closer than she should have ever been.

He hesitated. There was a moment of silence in which he heard nothing - not the whisper of the ivy, nor the rustle of the cedar's leaves, nor Buffy and Angel below in the Circle - except, very faintly, the sound of a young woman singing a wrenchingly sad, beautifully bitter song. He thought he might have known it once. He lost himself for a moment, closing his eyes to hear better, but even if he'd been awake and braced for it, nothing could have prepared him for the blast of pure, raw, unfocused magical energy that slammed into him, knocking him back.

He managed, just barely, not to go over the edge. He hit the ground hard and for a moment saw nothing but stars. When he could draw breath enough to lift his head he saw, by the tree, a strange white glow, almost blue, a color so beautiful, so perfect, so haunting that he felt his breath catch.

Buffy was suddenly beside him, helping him sit up - then shoving him back down again when something came flying at his head. She blocked it and leapt to her feet. Giles pushed himself up and saw an indistinct, white blur - not solid, but no longer invisible. And apparently enough of a physical presence for Buffy to be able to hit back - a most decidedly mixed blessing.

She was driving the ghost away from the edge this time, he saw in relief. Towards the cedar, her face set in grim determination. Giles groped for his glasses, knocked off in the melee, but couldn't find them. The sounds of the fight were encouraging though - actual blows landing, flesh on . . . no, it wasn't the same sound as flesh hitting flesh, there was an eerie, empty echo about it, but it was close enough.

"What the hell was that?" Robson demanded, crouching suddenly at Giles's shoulder and handing him his glasses.

"I think we made a serious miscalculation," Giles said, grimacing as he put them on - one of the lenses was cracked. "She used the ley line energy to anchor herself to the tree and then the energy we poured into the spell to - to -" He broke off, staring, and had to swallow before he could speak. "To do that," he finished, faintly.

She was nude. Beautiful and nude, and much more muscled than Giles would have expected from a young nineteenth century woman. She fought gracelessly, with an almost savage desperation, and not being alive gave her some distinct advantages. Buffy landed a kick to her head that should have knocked her out cold; her head rocked back, but that was all. Her eyes narrowed in fury and she redoubled her attack, tearing at Buffy with furious, ghostly hands, forcing her back a few steps out of pure force of will.

She was untrained, raw, completely without focus. Unconscious of herself and her power. And yet watching her against Buffy, Giles became utterly certain he knew who and what she was. From Robson's sharp intake of breath next to his ear, Giles was sure he knew it, too.

With an effort, Buffy put an end to the retreat that threatened to send her over the edge again. "What - is - your - problem?" she gasped, pushing back against Frances's onslaught with four well-aimed punches.

"You brought it here," she snarled. "That thing - that monster! You brought it here and you would keep me from my vengeance - keep me from what is _mine_, you - you _harlot_ -"

"Hey!" Buffy yelped. "Who're you calling a harlot? I'm not the one the one who's naked here."

Frances faltered, glancing down at herself. Buffy let loose with a powerful roundhouse kick and succeeded in laying her flat out on the ground. Frances let out a cry of outrage, but Buffy was already there, holding her down with a knee on her chest, grasping Frances's hands in both of hers, pinning them over her head. "That's the problem with bodies," Buffy said grimly. "They don't always do what you want them to." She turned her head to look at Giles. "Little help here?"

He pushed himself to his feet and managed not to stumble. He stretched his arm out and uttered a binding spell. Frances struggled briefly, then went limp, blurring strangely about the edges. Buffy knelt back and looked at Giles. "What do we do now?"

Giles shook his head, staring at her. "I - I know a spell to lay her to rest, but it's better if she doesn't resist."

Frances's outline sharpened instantly as she fought against the binding. "I won't let you," she said, shaking her head mulishly. "I won't, I won't - I'll have my vengeance, I swore I would -"

Behind him, Giles heard the Angel and Alan climbing the ladder. "Bloody hell," Alan said in a low voice.

"Stay back, Angel," Giles ordered.

Angel obeyed, lingering at the very edge of the circle, staring. "Giles . . ." he said slowly.

"I know," Giles said.

"Know what?" Buffy asked, raising her eyebrows.

Giles crouched down at France's side. "You had dreams, didn't you? Before you died? Terrible nightmares about evil creatures?"

"Creatures like _him_," she spat, lifting her head to glare at Angel, who hunched. "He disguises his evil under a handsome visage, but I know - _I know_ -"

"Oh my God," Buffy breathed. "You're a slayer."

Frances shook her head. "I don't know what that is."

"It's what you were," Giles said. "It's what Buffy is. One girl in all the world, chosen to protect humanity against the dark creatures that walk the earth. Except . . . you never got your chance."

"Or your watcher," Robson said, stepping closer. He let out a breath. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry we didn't find you in time."

Frances stared at them, her eyes very wide. "I don't - I don't - I thought I was going mad. I woke screaming every night from such terrible nightmares. I thought I was going mad and I didn't dare tell anyone. And one night, I thought, I had to go out, to see if it was true. And so I took a knife made of wood, as in my dream, and I went - and I found - but he was so strong . . ." Her edges were even more indistinct now, Giles saw, as though she was fading along with her rage, her fear, and her will. And what will she must have had, he thought with some wonder, to have kept herself here for so long, waiting for a vengeance that would never come. "I wanted him dead, the one who had done that to me. I wanted them all dead."

Buffy reached out as though to touch her and pulled back at the last moment. "He probably is dead," she said. "A long time ago. Most vamps don't live that long."

Frances's gaze went to Angel again. "He has." She glared at Buffy accusingly. "And you fight with him - I saw last night, I thought you must be evil, too -"

"Angel is . . . special," Buffy said, with a touch of irony. "Don't worry about it. That's the thing about being dead - there isn't much you have to worry about."

"The monsters, though," Frances insisted, brightening substantially for a moment. "Who will kill them if I'm dead?"

Buffy shrugged. "I hate to break it to you, but you've been dead awhile. It's my job now. And, well, you want the good news?" Frances nodded, hesitantly. "Where you're going, you won't care."

"Where am I going?" she asked, looking up at Buffy. The effects from the exorcism spell were fading now, but Giles could sense that the anger and rage in the air was diminished, while the fear lingered, potent and thick. Her thirst for vengeance had lent her a great deal of will and perhaps the power necessary to tap into the ley line, to dig up her own grave - but fear was likely what had kept her here to begin with. Fear, and the terrible burden of her unfulfilled destiny.

"Heaven," Buffy said simply. "You'll like it, I promise." Her voice cracked. "I've been there."

"Then why are you here now?" Frances asked, her voice a strange, faint echo.

Buffy smiled sadly. "Weird things happen to me. Though that's probably about the weirdest."

Frances shimmered. She was fading to gray now, a faint silver glow on the ground. Giles could see through her to the bare ground below. He decided he probably wouldn't have to do the spell to lay her to rest after all. Having learned that her vengeance was neither necessary nor within reach, and having been soothed of her fear and confusion by Buffy, she would simply let go as she should have a hundred and fifty years ago. He was glad he needn't do it against her will. "Dying hurt," she whispered. "I remember that."

"This won't," Buffy said. "It's like falling asleep, except when you wake up you're someplace else."

The ghost stared up at her. "Why are you crying?"

Buffy gave a watery laugh and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Because I'm a little jealous. It's okay, though. Close your eyes."

She did so. The glow grew fainter and fainter, until it was nothing but a shimmer, like low-lying mist. Giles held his breath for a moment and she was gone. Not just invisible, either, he knew, but truly gone. To her rest.

A strange sense of peace descended. Giles and Buffy stayed as they were, kneeling in the soil on either side of the empty space where Frances had been. Buffy was weeping silently, tears running freely down her cheeks, her shoulders hitching with the force of her grief.

Somewhere, across the cemetery, a nightingale twittered, breaking the profound silence. "Buffy?" Giles said gently.

She shook her head. "Take me home?" she whispered, holding her hand out to him.

"Of course," he said. He helped her up and kept her hand, covering it in both of his. She held the other one out to Angel, and he took it. There was such an expression of terrible, tragic love on his face that Giles could not help but feel something akin to sympathy for him. Giles's own love for Buffy was complicated - a bit like a father's, a bit like a friend's, very much like something else entirely that he suspected only another watcher would understand. It had been a source of great pain as well as joy, especially the last few weeks and months. But to love her and know that he was destined always to give that up, to be the one who had to walk away - he couldn't conceive of it.

Emerging from the cemetery onto the road was a bit of a shock for all of them. Giles made an executive decision and called them a cab using Robson's mobile. Buffy stood leaning against Angel, tears still slipping unheeded down her cheeks.

"I found a spell that might close the ley line," Giles said to Robson while they were waiting for the cab. He drew it out of his pocket. "I was going to do it myself, but -"

"No, no, by all means," Robson said, taking it from him. "Thank you. I'll make sure the proper people get hold of this - I imagine they'll do a test run out here, where it's no longer dangerous, and if it works they'll do it at Glastonbury and the other, more active sites."

Giles nodded. He glanced at Alan, who was standing there with the most astonished expression, as though his world had just tilted and realigned on a new axis. "Did you get many photos?" he asked him.

He nodded. "No one's ever going to believe they aren't Photoshopped, but yeah." He shook his head, glancing over his shoulder at the cemetery. "I always knew," he said with some wonder, "I always knew there was weird stuff in the world, but I never thought . . . that's why you do what you do, isn't it?" he said to Robson. "So girls like her don't - don't die alone."

"Everyone dies alone," Buffy said, the first she'd spoken in long minutes. Giles looked at her in concern, but she gave him a faint smile, even as the tears continued to slip down her cheeks. "Living, though. Living . . ." She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut.

"That's what we're here for," Giles finished. Buffy nodded. She didn't say a word after that, not even when the cab arrived and Giles and Angel said good-bye to Robson and Alan. Giles watched her carefully throughout the ride back to the flat, but for some reason the tears didn't alarm him. She was grieving, he thought, but on the other side of that would be acceptance. Or so he prayed.

He wasn't at all surprised when Buffy elected to go with Angel, rather than sleep alone. For once it didn't bother him. Giles wouldn't go so far as to say he trusted Angel, nor that he liked him, but he was able to fall asleep with relatively little anxiety compared to those first few nights. The exhaustion helped.

Buffy woke him just after dawn when she stretched out beside him, wrapped up in the extra blanket he kept folded at the foot of his bed. "All right?" Giles mumbled sleepily, lifting an arm up for her to slide beneath.

"Mm," she said, tucking herself under his chin. "Angel's leaving tonight."

He hugged her closer. "I'm sorry."

She made a disbelieving noise. "No, you're not."

"All right," he admitted, "I'm not, much. A little, perhaps, for you, though."

She shrugged. "S'better this way. The older, wiser Buffy can see that."

"We could go back to the coven," Giles said quietly, "if you want. Or someplace quieter than London."

She nodded. "The coven might be good." She was quiet for a moment. "We have to go back to Sunnydale soon, though, don't we. The sitch with Will - I heard you and Robson in the kitchen yesterday."

Giles nodded. "How do you feel about that?"

She rolled onto her back and turned her head to look at him. "Dunno. Not great, I guess, but -" She broke off suddenly, swallowing. "You know. You gotta do what you gotta do."

"If you can," he said. "Can you?"

"Think so." She smiled at him suddenly, though her eyes looked suspiciously bright. "They have music in heaven, but they don't have churros. They don't have you, either, or Angel or Dawn or Xander. Or -" she hesitated "- or Will. Or chocolate. Or this Harrod's you mentioned," she added, poking him in the chest and making him smile. She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Living's what we're here for."

"I meant that's what watchers -"

"I know. I was just . . ." She waved her hand vaguely. "Whatever." She nestled closer, tucked up warm against his side. "A week at the coven sounds nice."

"It does," he said with heartfelt agreement.

She fell silent then for so long that he almost thought she'd fallen sleep. He was on the verge of it himself, his arm wrapped around her. But then she stirred and said, so quietly he almost didn't hear, "I'm sorry."

He opened his eyes. "Me, too," he whispered.

"No, I mean for -"

"I know."

"I've been so wrapped up in what I lost, I never . . ." Buffy broke off. Her breathing was a little ragged, as though she was trying not to cry. "She must have been so scared," she said. "She didn't have anyone. I - I have so many people, but I just couldn't - I couldn't do it anymore, Giles. I just wanted out. I don't want to feel that way again, ever. I don't want to choose - that - again. "

Giles couldn't speak for a minute. His throat had closed up completely, and the way she was looking at him made something inside him that had been sealed up tight ever since she died crack open again. "Even though you know what's waiting for you?" he managed at last, in a too rough voice.

She smiled shakily at him through her tears. "Frances waited a hundred and fifty years. Heaven isn't going anywhere."

_Fin._


End file.
